I usually get up at 4 a.m., no alarm clock, just wake up and go downstairs, slam down a cup of microwaved coffee from the day before while I make a fresh pot. Then I hang out with the dogs. This one pictured is Olive, our weimeraner. She's seventy pounds of determination, very fast, very much in touch with her inner wolf. Every morning when I let her out she races outside and barks at the raccoons who live in the giant fir tree out back. She hates those guys. Squirrels she chases, but raccoons elicit this deep, guttural growl that is pure killer instinct. She actually caught one once, a big one she cornered against the fence, sunk her teeth into its right leg and gave it a shake. The raccoon did not like this. Not at all. Neither did I. I grabbed Olive by the collar and dragged her away while the raccoon hissed, claws bared and limped away.
Anyway, where was I? Okay, once Olive and the new guy, Archie, a border terrier, come back in, we lie around on the floor in a pile for about twenty minutes, just listening to each other breathe. I respect dogs. They're ravening beasts that have adopted the guise of manners for practicality and a meal... just like us. Then, coffee made, my dog bonding accomplished, I have a fresh cup of coffee while I read what I wrote the day before, making changes and getting into the mental space that I left the day before. Then I write for a few hours while the dogs chase each other around the yard.
If there's reincarnation I want to come back as a dog. I want to write a novel one day from the standpoint of a dog, but not one of those wimpy, wisdom-of-the-pooch books. I did a short story for Vice magazine a few years ago called "Bad Dog," which was a start. Take a read. Woof!
