Last Sunday my family won the New Puppy Battle. Their secret weapon? Daylight Savings Time. For nine months I successfully stonewalled, not until the clock rolled back, bestowing that luxurious extra hour, luring me into a giddy state of benevolent expansion, did I cave. By 2 pm the next day, The Puppy Team was in Arkansas signing adoption papers and flying home. With my New Office Mate.
Her name is Sophie.
Our Youngest Son is officially responsible for her care and feeding. EXCEPT when he isn’t home, which, during official working hours, is never. Sharing the close quarters of my office, we have gotten to know each other pretty well. I know that when she barks at her chew toys, she is just kidding. She knows that when I stare at my computer screen, I’m not really dead. I don’t mind telling you she spends A LOT of time attacking her giant dog pillow, gripping it in her ferocious puppy teeth and shaking it to death. Also, her tail sneaks up on her a lot.
We go outside together for breaks. She pretends she doesn’t know why we are outside, and I reconsider my backyard from her perspective. She drags big sticks, ten times her size, and I think how nice it would be to get rid of all the weeds. Or paint the house. We stay outside too long. Sometimes the Big Dog (formerly known as: Baby-Love-Dog-of-the-Century-Universe) joins us, but she doesn’t stay the whole time.
When we’re back inside and I’m working on yet another synopsis of my novel, when I’m struggling to reduce 354 pages to three purchase-inducing paragraphs, and find I’ve forgotten the name of the protagonist in my new novel, when I feel I may be losing my mind, I just look over at my Office Mate, 10 pounds of quixotic puppy, attacking that windmill of a dog pillow, and realize, it could be much worse.