For most of my life my words have been the bread and butter of my income. Whether spoken or written, the words that originate in my head have managed to keep food on my table most days of the week. I think that qualifies me as a writer.
Like many writers, I have certain rituals and habits that tend to make others think I’m a bit off. One of them is that I do most of my best work in the middle of the night. The reason I lean toward the nocturnal is that there are very seldom any interruptions at three in the morning and that allows me to get into a thought process and stay there.
Besides, during the day I exist to cater to Blue and Skye, a couple of dachshunds that live in my house. Blue and Skye don’t understand that this is my job. They are certain I stay home so they have someone to hang out with all day.
Skye, the female we obtained to one day be the mother of Blue’s children, thinks my lap is her recliner. She does seem to know when I’m at my desk that there’s a bunch of buttons in front of me that I keep pushing on and she wants to help. The problem is, she’s a lousy typist and doesn’t spell very well.
As soon as I politely explain she has no fingers for typing she cops an attitude. The next words out of her mouth are accusing me of not appreciating her. After I’ve offended her and she’s gone in the other room to tell Blue what a jerk I am, I start feeling kind of bad. After all, she was just trying to help. If nothing else, for such a funny looking little dog, Skye has a huge heart.
But Blue has corrupted her. Before I can even offer a cookie because I hurt her feelings, Blue has told her that what I’d really like is for them to both begin playing with their toys that squeak. “The louder the better,” Blue tells her as they take off into a symphony of their own making. There’s nothing that will take your focus away from writing more quickly than two wiener dogs playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons on a rubber cheeseburger and a pink tennis ball. I feign appreciation and listen attentively. Having already told her she’s a lousy typist there’s not a chance in the world you can get me to tell her she’s a poor musician as well.
Following the recital, Skye excuses herself to use the powder room, which is right outside the French doors in my office. Of course Blue has to go out with her. He knows that she’ll need him to bark incessantly at the first sign of one of the hundreds of squirrels that reside in our back yard. Of course her being the helper she is, she’s got to do a lot of barking too.
I swing open the door and yell for their silence, but am ignored. The frantic barking intensifies. I’ve learned the only way to silence the beasts at a moment like this is to hit them with a stream from the super soaker squirt gun I keep next to the door for just this purpose.
It’s empty so I’m standing there yelling and pumping up the squirt gun and shooting out air. By this point the squirrels are not only sticking their tongues out at Blue and Skye, but they’re laughing at me as well. I retreat to the kitchen sink and replenish my ammo. Moments before I return to the door with my weapon fully loaded, the barking dogs and laughing squirrels become silent. Just as I get to the door, Skye leaps at it to let me know she wants in.
I open the door and she rushes past me in a flurry of fur. Blue sits nonchalantly out in the yard looking at me. I say, “Come on, boy!” and he continues to sit, staring blankly. No sooner do I shut the door and return to my desk to look at the blank page where words should be, does Blue start barking again. It’s not the squirrel or cat bark. It’s not the strangers in the yard bark. It’s not even the “I want to come in now” bark. No, it’s the one he uses for no apparent reason whatsoever. Again I command, “Come on, boy!” Again he ignores me.
I take aim with the super soaker and plan my trajectory to ensure I’ll make it over the Dogwoods and hit Blue with the full stream of cold water. If I don’t hit him on the first shot, he will take evasive action. I gently squeeze the trigger.
Bull’s eye! No sooner does the water hit him than he charges toward me. Dachshunds are remarkably quick critters, considering their legs are only two inches long. Blue covers the 25 to 30 feet between us in the blink of an eye! He flies between my legs and head butts Skye who was watching the whole situation unfold from right between my two feet. Now the real fight begins. Blue has weight and experience on his side, but Skye is not at a disadvantage. She’s quick, she’s agile and she’s smart. Plus, she’s a female and they don’t always fight fair.
The ferocious growling, snarling and yelping as these two killers chase each other around in circles is deafening. Blue takes Skye to the ground only to be out-wiggled and then he suffers a swift counter-attack. Skye unexpectedly pulls a Tyson and has Blue’s ear clamped tightly in her jaws. This looks bad for Blue.
But wait. Blue tells Skye that the sun is shining through the window onto their doggie bed and she lets go of his ear, they walk to the bed, curl up and go to sleep. It’s 11 a.m.
Now what was I writing?
“Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes, the ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules, and they have little use for the status quo. 
