I just finished reading The Perfect Passion Company by Alexander McCall-Smith. He's best known for his Mma Ramotswe series, The No 1 Ladies Detective Agency, but he has written lots of others too. This one is (at least for now) a stand-alone. He writes with a very characteristic style, which I would describe as philosophical tenderness. Nothing awful ever happens, and even mildly bad things aren't allowed to go too far. All described kindly, accompanied by his own vaguely philosophical reflections on life and humanity.
When I finished it, I asked ChatGPT to "write a short story about a man and a stray dog in the style of McCall-Smith". I was amazed by what it produced, which absolutely echoes his style both linguistically and in feeling.
I also asked it to do the same in several other styles. Thomas Hardy was quite convincing - you can try it for yourself.
I know the theory of how LLMs work, but I still can't figure out how it can do stuff like this.
The Dog at the Corner Shop
There are many curious things that happen in a city, even in the quieter corners where streets are lined with linden trees and elderly ladies take the air while discussing the price of courgettes. One such corner lay at the meeting of Rue de la Forêt and the smaller, humbler Passage des Perles. It was here that Mr. Andrew Bell, a mild-mannered man of unassuming habits, found a dog.
It was a cool morning in early spring. The baker next door had just opened, and the warm perfume of risen dough drifted through the doorway like a warm, well-mannered guest. Andrew had stopped to purchase his usual country loaf. He believed, quite properly, that a person should have a relationship with his baker—mutual, respectful, and ideally punctuated by crunchy crusts.
As he stepped outside with his loaf, he saw the dog sitting—politely, it must be said—beside a stack of bottled water at the door of the corner shop. It was a wiry creature with caramel fur and alert amber eyes; the sort of dog who would undoubtedly know the price of courgettes, if such knowledge were ever required of him. He regarded Andrew with a patient, philosophical expression, as if he were accustomed to considering deep matters but had chosen, that morning, not to trouble himself.
Andrew paused. He did not usually speak to animals, having grown up in a household where pets were considered enthusiastic but unnecessary, like unnecessary commas. But the dog looked at him as though introductions were in order.
“Well,” Andrew said, “good morning.”
The dog wagged his tail once, a measured gesture indicating that the greeting had been received, processed, and approved.
“Are you waiting for someone?” Andrew asked.
The dog sighed—an elegant, dignified sigh—and stood. He walked directly to Andrew and sat at his shoe. It was a clear request: We may proceed now.
Inside the corner shop, Monsieur Lavigne, proprietor and commentator on all matters of consequence in the neighbourhood, adjusted his glasses.
“This dog has been here since dawn,” he announced. “He came with no one, and he has eaten nothing. Just sits there, comme ça.”
“He seems friendly,” Andrew said.
“Friendly, yes,” Lavigne agreed. “But unaccompanied. This is often how great adventures begin.”
Andrew contemplated this. Adventures were not generally part of his plans. His calendar contained items like the dentist and replace the vacuum bag. Dogs were not listed anywhere.
Still, the animal had chosen him.
Andrew took the dog home, where he gave him water in a salad bowl. The dog drank politely, not spilling a drop. He ate small amounts of cheese with gratitude, but not greed, as though he were mindful of cholesterol. Andrew found this admirable.
He telephoned the local shelter. No one had reported such a dog. He walked to the police station, where the officer on duty, who was not busy, asked if the dog had any discernible talents. Andrew didn’t know.
“He seems thoughtful,” he offered.
The officer wrote this down carefully.
Days passed. The dog—whom Andrew had begun to call Hugo, because a dog should have a name—made himself quietly indispensable. He rode the lift without complaint. He sat companionably by Andrew’s feet while he read. He nudged Andrew at exactly the right moment each morning, just before the alarm, making alarm clocks quite redundant.
One Saturday, as they walked along the river, they encountered a woman in a blue coat examining a map. She looked up and gasped.
“Hector!”
Hugo—Hector—bounded to her, tail sweeping the air with such delight that even the river seemed pleased. The woman embraced him. She looked at Andrew with shining eyes.
“He ran away during the storm. I thought I’d lost him forever.”
There was joy, of course—joy for the woman and joy for Hector, whose tail proclaimed reunion. But there was also a small, unexpected ache in Andrew’s chest.
“You’ve taken good care of him,” she said. “Thank you.”
Hector barked once, as if agreeing that Andrew had done well.
The woman smiled. “Would you—would you like to visit him sometime? He makes friends, but… he rarely chooses a person so completely.”
Andrew nodded. “I’d like that very much.”
Weeks passed. Andrew visited Hector every Sunday. They walked in the park and sat on benches, contemplating ducks and the secular miracles of sandwiches. Andrew looked forward to these visits in a quiet, steady way.
Life, he reflected, was sometimes like that. We are given companions for a short while—just long enough to remind us that friendship is everywhere, even on street corners where no one expects it, and even in the shape of a small dog with amber eyes.
And so it was that Andrew’s world grew just a little larger—and his baker, who knew these things instinctively, began including small leftover pastries in a paper bag, “for your philosophical friend.”
Because even in the simplest lives, there is room for a small miracle or two—and often, they arrive with four paws and an unhurried tail.
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