A Fraught Affair

We did not suspect a thing the first time we handed each dog a hunk of stale baguette. Nor did anything seem odd when they  trotted off to make slobbery crumbs on the rug. 


But Wally’s bread was soon gone, and Little Guy’s was not. 

We’d previously learned the meaning of, “The bone of contention,” when the two dogs would go to war over any randomly selected bone out of their bone collection. But Wally wasn't interested in Little Guy’s bread and neither were the human members of the family. 

There was no convincing Little Guy of our indifference, however. 

He went on high alert, deeply suspicious of our intentions. Fiercely defending his bread from imaginary threats, he carried it with him indoors and out.

He slept beside it. 

But this love affair seemed to bring him more stress than joy. He dared not leave the grubby, tooth marked, crumbling, object of his devotion unattended. 

His hyper-vigilance soon made movement through his day nearly impossible. How could he bark at the mailman with his bread? What was he to do if cookies were offered? Or a ball thrown? How could he close both eyes to sleep?

By day four, dog and bread were ragged, and just as he'd feared we would, we seize and disappear the remains of Little Guy's beloved. 

Since that first baguette, others have taken its place; whole wheat, sour-dough, classic French. Little Guy’s passion for each remains undiminished. 

This makes us wonder if we are doing him a favor or cursing him with each new offering.  In fact, as I write this, his foot rests protectively across his latest. 

A dog and his stale bread, a fraught affair, a beautiful thing. 

xo Amy

Of Dogs and Books

Am staring down this novel, while vacuuming up the copious schmutz with which our new puppy covers all surfaces. 

His non-allergenic poodle fur doesn’t shed, so there is less fur to sweep.

BUT his curls act like Velcro for the crispy bits of twig, bark, leaves, and parched, withered death that this drought and I have created in the name of zero-scaping. 

His extremely effective dirt-delivery system, teamed with his enthusiastic interest in pinecones, shoes and paper products has effectively replaced the dirty dishes, wet towels, sticky wrappers, and smelly laundry with which my children filled the nest until quite recently. 

So, time-wise, I’m still cleaning.  

And writing? 

By way of encouragement, I tell my writing students that there is something learned by the completion of each book that makes it easier to write the fifteenth novel than the fifth... 

BUT I’m not entirely sure I believe that.  

In fact, if there is anything I am sure of, it is that each novel writes itself differently. 

You may learn the basics on the first one: How to carry it so you don’t bash its soft spot on every door jam. 

How to diaper it.

How to attach a car seat...  

BUT beyond that you must discover / re-invent on a per project (book / baby) basis.  

For example -- You could get Kid #1 to shut up by strapping it into that automatic swing, AKA the electric chair, and setting the timer for next Thursday.

BUT Kid #2 arches the back, goes ridged, and will have none of it. 

Novel #6 filled itself with jokes, whereas Novel #11 took itself very seriously.

And so I struggle against the encroaching squalidifying of my home, as much now with this filth-hound as I once battled the onslaught of Barbie shoes and lego.

And I wrestle the new novel as if I’d never attempted such a battle before.

Odd, ain’t it?

xo

Amy