Rachael made an aside about her mounds of animals, and it reminded me of a moment at her last party. She’d locked all the animals in the bedroom, except for Adah (who had been hiding). When found, I offered to help Rach put the last cat away. I opened the door, knowing FULL WELL that beyond that barrier was a mass of animals. I still jumped back and screeched a bit. It’s not that any of them are scary or anything; they’re just so overwhelming, and really know how to fill a small space.
Sadly, she’s only ever been queen for about a month or two. First, she had bratty little brother Brody up in her space for 3 whole years. How she ever put up with him, I’ll never know. Then he moved out, and she sorta breathed a sigh of relief and spread out a little. Then there was a short, bad episode with a small dog, moving immediately into a 2-cat situation. She is most decidedly not the queen of anything now; those cats knock her around like a fluffy big-eared volleyball.
And she copes. She even cuddles with the kitties once in a while. But while she is never as happy as when she’s chasing an oblivious ball-focused cattle dog in a park, having other animals at home never seems to add anything to her life. She loves not having to share the sunspots – or share anything, actually. She’s much less stressed about bones and toys when there’s not someone else trying to steal them.
Kinda like me. I enjoy writing dates, and my writer’s groups, and the fantabulous Night of Writing Dangerously, but those are my trips to the dog park. Those are the moments outside the norm. True, they make me gleeful. But for day-to-day routines, I prefer the moments alone at my desk when I wrestle something into submission-quality and do a private little happy dance. I like not sharing those moments. I like to jealously guard my plot revelations sometimes.
As if I didn’t anthropomorphize my dog enough already. Next thing you know, I’ll be dressing her in a beret and fashioning a typewriter that she can paw at.