Red Room Where the Writers Are

Puppy at the keyboard

      The puppy is a literary little beast.  She climbs onto the back of the chair and hangs over my shoulder as I type.  Her paws are unsettlingly close to the keys.  “Whatcha writing?”

     “It’s all about you.”

     “You’re going awfully fast.  You’re not thinking very hard or looking anything up, are you?  You can’t be doing your best work.  How come when you write about me you do it so fast?”  She prattles along on one of her quizzical tangents and I grit my teeth in anticipation of an onslaught of puppy logic.

     “Because I love you and I know you so well.  You should be flattered that you inspire me.  You’re very near and dear to me.  And very, very close.  Too close.”  Her chest is resting on my shoulder as she squints at the screen and sixty-odd pounds of dog makes me list precariously to the leeward side of the desk.

     “I think it’s because you use me as a filler to those high-class things you write about sometimes.  You think I’m easy.  I’m cheap.  You even make fun of me.  I’m just a funny, funny girl to you.  Where’s the poetry?  Where’s the angst?  Show me the zeitgeist!”  She’s revving into a full-fledged whine and I’m on alert.  “You don’t use big words when you write about me.  I’m just cheap filler-fodder.”    

     Zeitgeist?  It must be those Germanic genes.  “I could use some much bigger words but you might not like them very much.”

     “Okay.  Try me out.  I dare you.”

     Unfortunately, only four-letter words come to mind and they are less than flattering.  I recall her prior accusations of abuse and mental anguish and the puppy wins another round.