Games we play

Scooter barks. Snickers scratches.

Right now Snickers is pawing at an envelope on the floor, not trying to scratch it into pieces, but scratching me into annoyance so I will feed her. Right now Scooter is barking at her because he wants a shot at tearing up the envelope, but Snickers is sitting on it.

Snickers has learned that scratching paper or books drives me crazy, and the only way to get her to stop temporarily is to feed her. In this way Snickers has trained me.

Scooter barks. Snickers scratches. I revise.

I am playing the same writing game with myself that I've practiced for the last two years. Sit down with the intent to revise essays I believe in, read them, get tired with the thought of that much close work, get scared that I actually have to dig in and write new words, and put it away. Next time I'll write. Next time I'll have the energy. I'm losing this game.

Just now, Scooter gave up barking at Snickers and started chewing on the corner of the rug. I told him to drop it and let's go outside. He obliged, and Snickers followed, but he wouldn't go near the door, so I went back to the office to continue writing. He followed, saw the envelope unattended on the floor, and stole it back to the couch.

Munched, wet paper pieces surround Scooter now as he sleeps. Snickers, temporarily content, lays at the window, where drips still fall from the roof following an earlier thunderstorm. I drink tea and think of sleep, of driving to Atlanta for the first time tomorrow, of Snow Patrol and the spiritual effect of live music, of Kansas basketball and the experience of 2008's championship, of baking and rearranging and decorating because too often the accumulation of words leaves me dizzy and afraid of completion.