Let Me In So I Can Go Out

 

Pssst. Over here. KEEP YOUR VOICE DOWN!

I’m secreted away in a bunker fortified by steel and wood. To be more specific, I’m in my home office with the door closed.

No matter. Esme still takes offense. For the dog of a writer, she seems to hate when I practice my craft. I guess that shouldn’t be surprising; she’s the first dog I’ve ever known to have a look of condescension. As if to say: Come on, simple human; you can do it. 

So it goes with my writing. She hates it. Or at least she refuses to be around when I’m attempting it.

And I’m not sure why. Perhaps I used to yell at the computer when I was struggling with a story. Or cursing the keyboard when the Mac froze.

Whatever the case, she hates to be around when she senses stress. Her big brother, Teddy, used to be a notorious ruiner. He’d chew on jeans til there was a hole the size of a softball. Shoes were simply the tenderloins of rawhides. He once chewed my wallet to pieces — along with all the cash inside.

So perceptive was she that she would leave the house the moment I awakened and walked into the living room — she knew the shock and awe of Teddy’s handiwork to come.

I’ve tried everything to soothe her nerves, to keep her comfortable on the couch: music, a space heater, four blankets and a pillow (I never said I was a logical dog owner).

No matter. When the keys are a’clackin, she gets to packin.

Like right now. She must have heard you reading and headed for the door. Thanks a lot.

 

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