Day of the Dog: Two Australians, One Rental Car, and a Surprise Visitor That Now Lives in My Nightmares.

Our eventful book signing event in Williamsport, Pennsylvania.

22nd November, 2025

The last time I was in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, I was bombing so hard you could feel it from Jersey. So, when my co-author and fellow Australian expat

Scott Dooley

and I agreed to drive the four hours from Brooklyn back to the scene of the crime for a book signing, I could almost hear the universe clearing its throat.

We rented a car that helped us cosplay as real adults and spiralled out of Williamsburg. The GPS decided it might like to take us in the complete opposite direction for the first two miles, which is always a good omen. Scott took the wheel because I drive like a man whose first licence was issued by the Western Australian government. The vehicle had that new car smell that whispers, “I dare you to spill petrol-station coffee on me,.”

Pennsylvania is a seemingly endless series of highways stitched together by gas stations selling jerky that looks like a dare. We had to stop a few times, because my bladder is Union and requires a break every hour. At one truck stop, I pushed open a door to find something you’d only see on 4Chan, before briskly jogging back to the car, hoping to pick up some new eyeballs at the next gas station. Somewhere around Scranton, Scott said, “You know, this might actually be fun,” which is definitely the kind of thing you only say when good things are ahead.

Williamsport, when we finally arrived, was exactly as I remembered it: quiet, friendly, faintly surreal. Like someone built a town out of polite nods and forgot to add public transport. Oh, and there’s sky. So. Much. Sky. There are also houses here that have definitely appeared in the establishing shot of a horror film.

We dropped our bags at St Nells, and ambled over to the nearest bar, drinking cocktails made from local gin with the faint finish of forest floor and whiskey that had a light hint of the armpit of a Civil War jacket. When two Australians arrive anywhere, we are legally required to hydrate with booze.

The locals perched on either side of us gabbed excitedly about the big school music recital happening that night. We nodded along, pretending to understand the significance of a euphonium solo, and promised we’d try to get there to cheer on their offspring. At one point, the British chap at the end of the bar started burbling something about crashing our book signing tomorrow, so we closed out our tab and toddled off to the next haunt to grab some food.

I saw twelve dogs in ten minutes. This town is CHOCKERS with dogs.

Every time I see a dog anywhere in New York, I pounce: “You like dogs? Buy our book!” I always carry flyers with a QR code, flinging them at strangers like a deranged wedding usher. I dropped a few of them slyly at the bars as we slithered through town.

We drained every Guinness pipe in town, gobbled down bar fries like a death row prisoner and wobbled back to the house with armfuls of snacks. I can’t believe our better halves let us out in public. (It’s probably for the blissful reprieve.)

We spent the night at St Nell’s Residency; a beautifully appointed artist retreat run by the world’s most generous scribbler, Emily Flake. Fellow New Yorker cartoonist and comic,

Hilary Fitzgerald Campbell

, apparently, stayed there the same night with her boyfriend, but we were ships in the night. Or more accurately: two ships who checked in, ate snacks, and fell asleep fully clothed. They got in around 1am, by which time Scott and I were passed in our rooms —he, with his laptop on with a live stream to the cricket, and me with several old issues of the New Yorker with articles I’d been ‘meaning to get to’ for seventeen years.

The next morning, we groggily rolled into the Sawhorse Café to inhale coffee and eggs, marched to Otto’s Bookstore, and met with the most charismatic bookstore owner since Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail. He’d set the place up beautifully, with a big banner, stacks of books for us to sign, hot coffee and pastries, and our books in the windows. He made us feel like royalty— and had some of the greatest publishing industry stories I’ve ever heard. Truly a legend.

Otto’s Bookstore is the kind of place that makes you wonder why every town doesn’t have a 175–year–old literary institution quietly holding civilisation together with hardcovers and charm. Founded in 1841, it has survived floods, fires, world wars, recessions, Trump, the rise and fall of Borders, and whatever is currently happening to Twitter.

Walking inside feels like stepping into a parallel universe where people still read books made of paper and know their neighbours by name. It’s family-run in the truest, warmest sense, stocked floor to ceiling with stories, and manages to function as both the cultural heart of Williamsport and a place where you can buy a book about fly-fishing, a novel that’ll emotionally ruin you, and a bookmark shaped like a kitten.

Being there doesn’t just make you feel welcome. It makes you feel like you’ve been adopted by the oldest bookshop in America, and it’s genuinely proud of you for reading.

A couple of local animal rescue organisations set up in front of us as the doors burst open, the entire town shuffling through with their puppers and doggos to get their signed copies with sketches of their furbabies.

I immediately began signing and drawing dogs at a pace that suggested we feared punishment if we stopped. The town showed up. The dogs showed up. John, who runs Otto’s, treated us like visiting dignitaries. For one glorious day, we were kings. Kings surrounded by Corgis, but kings nonetheless.

At one point, Santa dropped in. Because of course he did. (He did smell suspiciously of the gin we were swilling last night, but boy was he jolly.) But that wasn’t even the weirdest cameo…

About 3 hours in, a giant cat wandered in, lost in search of the local furry convention, presumably. They asked me to draw their dog. Which… was definitely the first time this has happened. I’m pretty sure. Scott had nothing but questions for the feline. I had nothing but pure, unadulterated fear.

We had an endless stream of good girls and good boys bounding through, licking and wagging and yapping and playing as I sketched furiously. The books were flying off the table- we were worried we’d exhaust our supply!

By the end of the day, my hand had contorted into a permanent claw from drawing so many Labradoodles. Scott had developed a thousand-yard stare that only appears in men who have been asked to dedicate a book to a Scradoodle named Krumpet, or a three-legged Jack Russell named Sir Poopington.

We thanked John and the team at Otto, packed up our things and clambered back into the car. I was passed out in the passenger seat before we hit the highway. It was a great day.

As I was drifting off, I realised something. My first trip to Williamsport ended with me drowning in flop sweat. This one ended with locals thanking us profusely and handing us baked goods. And in the end, the only bomb I dropped this time was the smell in the rental car after I ate that second gas station hot dog.

‘til next time

Your pal,

PS. If you’d like a sketch of your dog, or your friend’s dog, let me know.