I dog sat for our neighbors Tuesday and realized why so many writers have cats.
It wasn't the dog's fault. Ozzie is the sweetest, cutest, best-behaved little mutt imaginable. But in all our previous meetings - in the corridor, or out in the parking lot - I had petted him and played with him and been excited to see him. Tuesday I was excited as well, for the first few minutes. Then I sat down at the computer to write.
I had put a blanket on the floor, next to my chair, which Ozzie laid down on. Looking at me. I knew what he was thinking: 'I had you down as a fun guy - why are you sitting and looking at words? And what's with the tapping? It doesn't even sound like music.'
Ozzie changed positions, facing the door, hoping - hoping - that someone would come in. Someone cool. Sometimes he'd turn his head and give me that look - that sad, yearning, imploring look ('Let's go! Let's race! Let's play!') - and it made me feel terrible. I was letting Ozzie down. He was seeing me as the sedentary soul I am. A cat would have understood perfectly.
