The small dog comes trotting to my desk, the sound of her feet like small-arms fire. The addition of metal taps could not make her noisier on the wooden floorboards. Her small, flattish face has an expression of urgency.
"Oh no! Is Timmy in the well?" I ask her.
She replies with a dismissive snort. She hates it when I am facetious.
I tilt my head to the side and gaze deeply into her goldfishy eyeballs. "What is it, Lilly? Tell me, girl!"
She snorts. She's not having any of my phony-baloney.
Backing up with a lot of unnecessary ball-change steps, she gives me a look of as much impatience and disbelief as she can muster. Which is considerable.
If I insist on finishing the sentence I am typing -- especially if that sentence turns into two or three sentences -- she lunges with both front feet held out straight. She delivers a canine judo chop with her chilled ratty little feet.
If I continue to ignore her, she will be so moved as to give a gruff bark. It's five o'clock, dammit!
And after all -- really, truly -- who am I to resist her blandishments? I might be her Food Goddess, but it's evident my little disciple demands that I kick my divine self into gear and dish up the goods. It's dinner time already.
About the Blog
A lot of ground gets covered on this blog -- from sailboat racing to book suggestions to plain old piffle.
Trying to keep track? Follow me on Facebook or Twitter or if you use an aggregator, click the RSS option below.
Old school? Sign up for the newsletter and I'll shoot you a short e-mail when there's something new.