Blame My Dog

Close readers of YSDA may have noticed that our production has fallen off in recent weeks. The other members of my household are to blame. I’ll explain.

I usually write this blog early in the morning. I read something in the morning’s papers. My goat is gotten. I spout off. I post the spouting and I go on with my day.

The trouble is with the logistics of the thing. I do my writing from my living room chair, laptop perched on — not surprisingly — my lap, coffee and breakfast near at hand.

But a couple of weeks ago my lap became occupied by my dog, Maple. That sort of thing had been strictly forbidden, at least in Madison, by the final authority in my home, my wife Dianne. Maple could sit anywhere she wanted up north, the Upper Peninsula being America’s last outpost of rugged independence and true freedom, an oasis from all regulation, governmental or even domestic.

But back here in Madison, where government regulation is how a lot of us make our living and also where the furniture is better, Maple had no business being anywhere but on the floor.

Then I spent a week up north by myself, putting the final touches on the winter tucking in of the place and doing some bow hunting. When I returned Maple was more insistent than usual about hopping on my lap. I followed standing orders and sternly resisted all entreaties. Finally, after a few days of this, Dianne fessed up. In my absence, she had given in. It had as much to do with her self-interests as the dog’s. The mornings were growing cold and Maple was warm.

So I adapted to the new regime. Maple took her new rightful place on my lap, displacing my laptop and robbing me of my crucial writing time. It’s amazing how quickly a dog can move something from forbidden to the point of taboo to an absolute right, and could you scooch up that afghan just a little higher to cover my paws, thanks so much.

I find that by the time she departs on her way to her morning walk with Dianne, the fire in my belly about whatever it was has dissipated. By the time 9AM rolls around I’ve started to enter the live and let live part of the day. The coffee has taken hold and the grumpiness of first light has subsided. Really, is anything such a big deal? Is Trump really that bad? Are the Democrats really that clueless? Well, yes and yes, but I’ve got other stuff to do now. Those dishes won’t wash themselves now, will they?

I don’t know what the future holds. I can’t immediately figure out an accommodation. You can’t tap out 800 words on a dog’s back. I’ve tried. The dog doesn’t like it. And have you ever tried to write anything of length on an iPad? It takes so long that by the time I finish I’ve started to consider the other side of the argument. I’ve begun to think that maybe I was wrong. Self-awareness is the bane of good blogging. Better to be absolutely certain in your wrong-headedness. This is what makes the internet such an enormous advance in human understanding.

So, for now, all I’ve got for you is this weak explanation. I’m writing less because my dog demands a spot on my lap just when I need my lap the most. Maple just turned seven and, given her size, she’s probably got another good seven years left in her. And, in fact, if I had anything to say about it, she’d live forever or longer than me, whichever comes last.

So, we should get back to regular daily posts around here sometime in 2033 maybe. It’s okay. Nothing of consequence is likely to happen before then.