I can’t write
Our pug is snoring, his nasal congestion driving me insane.
“Out!” I yell.
Doesn’t he know I am in the middle of writing an action scene?
I drag my hand down my cheek and adjust the mess of hair I had hastily twisted into a sloppy bun hours before.
The dog sighs and exits.
I love him, but I can’t think when he’s snoring.
I start to type.
Our lab takes advantage of the free dog bed near my chair and lies down. An odor fills the air and I gag.
Dear God what did he eat this morning?
I can’t breath.
“Out,” I shout.
He looks at me, and his sad expression pulls at my heartstrings. I think about cracking the window and allowing him to stay, but he does it again. My eyes start to water.
“Really?” I throw my hands in the air.
He huffs and leaves.
“Finally, ”I grumble, attacking the key board.
I am so absorbed in the story that the outside world slips away.
Something cool brushes my foot. Did the dogs leave a toy in my office?
A sharp biting pain causes me to jump from my seat.
My children tried to warn me, but I thought they were exaggerating.
Our turtle slides across the floor toward me, his toenails still pink from the last time our eldest daughter painted them.
His neck slowly extends. He is going to bite my foot again.
I pick him up.
“Et Tu Todd?”
I close my screen and carry the turtle out to the kitchen where he likes to lay on top of the heating vent. I put lettuce in the bowl next to him and he starts to eat.
Rolling my head from side to side I decide to stop my writing for the day.
The dogs wag their tales.