In this constraint writing exercise I typed out the first chapter of Greyfriars Bobby by Eleanor Atkinson, but removed all the sentences that did not start with ‘he’ or ‘Bobby’. The purpose of the exercise is to consider sentence structures, and how we might vary them. While removing many of the sentences changes the meaning of the original text, and in this case, results in a loss of whole scenes, it is still possible to understand the gist of the story.
He was only a little country dog – the very youngest and smallest and shaggiest of Skye terriers – bred on a heathery slope of the Pentland hills, where the loudest sound was the bark of a collie or the tinkle of a sheep bell. Bobby had heard it many times, and he never failed to yelp a sharp protest at the outrage to his ears: but as the gunshot was always followed by a certain happy event, it started in his active little mind a train of pleasant associations. Bobby knew, as well as any man, that it was the dinner hour. He did not know the face of death and, a merry little ruffian of a terrier, he was ready for any adventure.
He had learned that by bitter experience. He could go no farther himself, but the laddies took up the pursuit, yelling like Highland clans of old in a foray across the border. Bobby dashed back, barking furiously, in pure exuberance of spirits. He tumbled gaily over grassy hummocks, frisked saucily around terrifying old mausoleums, wriggled under the most enticing of low set table tombs and sprawled exhausted but still happy and noisy at Auld Jock’s feet.
He learned that he might chase rabbits, squirrels, and moor fowl, and sea gulls and whaups that came up to feed in ploughed fields. He was no lady’s lapdog. Bobby had the leavings of a herring or a haddie; for a rough little Skye will eat anything from smoked fish to moor-fowl eggs, and he had the tidbit of a farthing bone to worry at his leisure.
He might have been carried to the distant farm and shut safely in the byre with the cows for the night, but for an incautious remark of the farmer. Bobby pricked his drop ears. He yelped at the crash of the gun, but it was another matter altogether that set his little heart to palpitating with alarm.
Bobby stood stock still for an instant.
Bobby forgot to dine that day, first in his distracted search, and then in his joy of finding his master. Bobby barked as if he would burst his lungs. He barked so long, so loud, and so furiously, running round and round the car and under it and yelping at every turn, that a latternly scullery maid opened a door and angrily bade him no to deave folk wi his blatterin. Bobby’s feathered tail drooped, but it still quivered, all ready to wag again at the slightest encouragement.
SANDERLINGS 