I used to think it was impossible to be morose around a frolicking, tail-wagging, quasi-smiling dog. As a writer and aspiring author, toeing the coast of my dreams and getting constantly walloped back by the system, I've learned that this isn't always the case.
While my furry companion sometimes likes to warm my feet with his paws, he hasn't yet learned to shield my problems. More likely, when all I want to do is lie in the sand and let the waves of self-defeat wash over me, Shadow forces me to stand up and take him for a walk, throw him a ball, or socialize myself while socializing him at the dog park. Rarely do I forget my troubles as a result, but my tunnel vision usually widens to remind me that every storm cloud has a brighter (though I won't go so far as to say silver) lining.
Maybe writers need dogs almost as much as they need ink. Thoughts?
