BLOG HIJACKING: Cosmo And Dreamer

"Quick! She's gone to make the coffee. Cosmo, start typing!!!!"

"Opposable thumbs would make that easier! But here goes."

All right . . . we're going to give you a dog's-eye view of what it's like to be the pet of a writer. First of all, there are a lot of us pets in this house. She has a noisy parrot, another dog (Fat and Lazy), and a lovebird, as well as a beta fish. We won't discuss the PYTHON. He belongs to Older Boy. But seriously, pets who belong to writers? Well, it's an interesting life.

First, the hours. Mom doesn't get much sleep. Now, we'll discuss the Demon Spawn later, but suffice it to say? We're typing this at 5:30 a.m. Usually, when she gets up, we just BARELY lift our heads. She's up before the rooster crows, and sure as heck up before us dogs want to even roll over and contemplate breakfast. She's up before the sun rises. Sometimes, she takes us for a four-mile walk, which we love. But if something called a "deadline" is happening, she can't spare the hour of quiet. Anyway, usually we're snoring. But we've been planning this blog hijiacking for a while now, so we needed to get up really early today. Baby Girl took our pictures. Cute, aren't we? For mutts of . . . unknown origin. Baby Girl was supposed to get ONE puppy. She came home with two. And Mom? She just shrugged and took it all in stride. Even the fact that one of us was clearly the runt.

Anyway, she gets up early--and we have to be honest, she does NOT look her best at this hour. She starts the coffeemaker, then she usually blogs. Before coffee!! Then she lights candles. Enough to burn the house down. She lights a candle for every friend in trouble or sad, or sick. She even lights candles for people she doesn't know (which we think is weird). She lights one for inspiration. One for compassion. Soon, we have a veritable blaze going. Then she prays. What she's saying, we have no idea. But man, she's pretty intense about it. She's got a LOT on her mind.

Then she sits down again. Now, I don't know how other writers do their whole writing thing, but Mom opens a file and stares at it. For a while. Like what? Is the computer gonna talk to her? Then she often looks at me (the darker dog in the picture), or Dreamer (the white one), or Fat and Lazy, and says, "What do you think, guys?"

She stares some more. Like, is she a WRITER or a STARER? Then she mutters something about whatever's going on in this thing called PLOT, and starts typing. She writes fast. I mean, those fingers fly. Sometimes she talks to herself.

Then the Spawn wakes up. We run for the hills. Let me tell you, she's got four kids and THAT one is gonna be the death of us. He doesn't know how to hug us without treating our ears as handles. Like, what's up with that? And the tantrums, the throwing things, the climbing up inside the pantry, the leaping from the bed onto the laundry basket. He comes in sometimes and asks mom to let him sit in her lap. She ALWAYS stops for that. But then usually he does something rotten, like pull her hair at the same time he kisses her. When she tells him that's naughty, he grins (he has dimples you know) and says something like, "You're beautiful!" A regular Cary Grant, that kid. Cary Grant playing SATAN.

Anyway, her day pretty much goes like this until 3:00 p.m.: type, answer phone (agent), type, Play Little Green Army Men with Demon (this despite the fact that she believes in peaceful resistance and non-violence, but as you can guess, Spawn likes fighting with the Little Green Army Men; she makes him have "Peace Talks" and the Little Green Men have to "resolve their differences"--we don't think Spawn gets it, but Mom tries). After playing Army Men, she answers the phone (her dad . . . she always takes his calls--but NEVER answers for anyone else), type, type, type, type. Checks this thing called email. Plays a turn or two on her 10 ongoing Scrabulous games on Facebook. Types. Hears Demon crashing. Jumps up. Discovers he now knows how to get in the fishtank . . . and he has fed the fish . . . CHEESE. Do you know how gross cheese is . . . inside an aquarium? Plays with him for a half-hour, kisses him, makes him a snack, settles him in with crayons and a coloring book, races back to her desk because she KNOWS she's got less than ten minutes until he's causing havoc again, types really, really, really fast. This whole cycle replays itself numerous times.

At 3:00, Baby Girl comes home. She's probably our favorite because, after all, she picked us out. Then Older Boy comes in. He's grown his hair longer than Mom's and it's really "rock star"-lookin'. He is usually STARVING. We offer to share our food. He looks at us like we're dumb dogs and cruises the fridge. It's hard to see his eyes with all that hair, but Mom usually greets him with, "Hey Buddy, how was school? . . . Oh, and you're perfect, you know, just the way you are." No matter WHAT he tells her. She's kind of like that with these kids. Even Spawn. Older Boy eats pretty healthy. No sweets. But he likes a LOT of pizza. So he usually has that or . . . chicken wings. Which grosses mom out as she's vegetarian. Chicken . . . gross.

Anyway, once they're home, this thing called writing is tough to do. She sometimes gets sad about that because it means she has to stay up late, but she deals with it. Then it's homework, softball practice, Ninjitsu classes. Oldest Girl sometimes breezes in. She's eighteen. She hates dogs. We avoid her. Sometimes Mom and Spawn go outside and feed the birds. Mom likes that. A lot. Demon does, too. Then he tries to chase the squirrels away from the bird feeders with whatever weapon happens to be handy--usually a large stick. Demon Baby hates squirrels. A lot. Because he loves "his and Mom's" birds. A lot.

Sometime around 5:00, mom does laundry, cooks something that resembles human food for dinner. She's NOT a great cook. She hates cooking, in fact.

Once Demon Child is in bed, she comes down and starts writing again. Sometimes, she's just too exhausted. She goes to sleep. But then . . . see here's her secret . . . sometimes she gets up again at 1:00 a.m. and . . . this is where writers are NUTS, she starts writing again. I mean, what can be so damn important? At 1:00 a.m., she REALLY loves us. Because it's kind of lonely, she says, being a writer at 1:00 a.m. In fact, despite all the chaos, it dawns on us that Mom is kind of lonely. She says it's because writers are always "in their heads." Whatever that means. Anyway, she writes until she can't anymore, then goes back to bed for a little sleep until 5:30 a.m.

Crap! She's coming back. Listen, before we go . . . tell us, what would your pet tell the blog if it could? Are all you writers this weird?

Creature Comforts

On another author loop, a writer remarked that we seem to, collectively, own a LOT of cats and dogs. In thinking about it . . . that seems to be true. And in thinking about it more, I guess it's company for us solitary souls who write for a living.

I have a corgi. He looks like the one at left, only he is MUCH, MUCH fatter, much to my and his vet's dismay. He is like a corgi on prednisone. I also have two mutt puppies--adorable and a little crazy. And as a writer, no, I do not talk to them. Occasionally, I mutter to them in frustration, but I do like to write late at night with Chubby Dog snoring on the rug in my office. Actually, Chubby is named Chip. The other two are Cosmo and Dreamer.

I also have a pet python. He is actually my older son's pet, and I am not friends with Lydia (the snake). As a Buddhist, Lydia's preferred food choice of live rat pups really makes me squeamish and upsets me. But my son really loves Lydia, so . . . she is there in a tank in his room and I avoid her.

I also have a parrot. She is a cockatoo, actually, and she talks. She tells me she loves me all the time. This is nice because when I spend a lot of time alone, I start to wonder if anyone loves me. She confirms there is at least one bird on the planet who does.

Then there is Blossom. I talk to her. She is a Beta fish and sits on my desk. She sometimes mocks me when I don't have any good ideas, but she is usually supportive. She is full of wisdom.

Out on my porch, I have Zen, my canary. Love Zen! He sings sometimes. He is getting old for a canary . . . and I worry about Old Zen. I talk to him a lot. He knows ALL my problems.

And so that's my creature comfort. I do like the company. I love caring for them all. And I know, yes, as Americans, we own a lot of pets. But writers . . . well, we seem to have more than most.

So tell me about your pets if you have any.

Peace,
E