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| Frisbee, ball in mouth. |
The past five months I’ve spent even more time than usual
attached to a chair. General household order and muscle tone number among the
casualties, but The Revisions to the Next (as yet unnamed can you believe it?)
Novel are almost done.
No one will be happier to see this phase of the writing
process end than my Australian Shepherd, Frisbee.
“Ah,” say those of you who know Aussies. You say this as you
envision flying plastic discs, bouncing tennis balls, and random sticks hurled
boomerang-style. You say this as you imagine an exhausted middle-aged woman
trudging outside in all sorts of weather (Maine’s coastal weather can be summed
up as “all sorts,” often within a 15-minute span) because an Aussie will walk. Every. Single. Day. You say
this knowingly, even though I would
delete the word, because it ends in –ly,
making it an adverb, which, in this season of revision means it must go, go,
GO!
As Stephen King warns in his memoir, On Writing, “The road to hell is paved with adverbs.” And let’s
face it: Stephen King would know how the road to hell is paved.
For those of you who don’t know Aussies, think: somewhat
dumber Border Collie. In other words, busy in the extreme, focused to the point
of obsession, relentless … with a side order of lovable goofiness. If the
Border Collie is the Harvard student with perfect SAT scores, the Aussie makes
the honor roll and gets into the respectable safety school. Then plays
Ultimate. Or rugby.
At any given moment as I write, rewrite, and unwrite (which
feels like an appropriate word for the detangling this manuscript has needed)
I can look across the room to the futon where Frisbee pretends to nap (yes,
this entitled dog jumps up on the furniture) and at the slightest movement from
me her eyes will open, wide, and she will channel “Are we ready to go YET??”
She plays these Jedi Dog Tricks all day, and always succeeds.
I could not pull off this work without her, and in this I am
not alone. I was reminded of that this weekend, not only when I read Maira
Kalman’s lovely essay “True Love” in the Sunday Times, but also when I met, for
the first time, in the most unexpected setting (I was wiping tables; he was
sweeping floors) the author Ron Currie, Jr. who commented he’d just spent the
past 12 years inside with his dog and realized he needed to get out.
The poet Mary Oliver devotes an entire volume, Dog Songs, to this bond. Here’s one that
reminds me of my girl.
Percy Speaks While I am Doing Taxes
First of all, I do not want to be doing this.
Second of all, Percy does not want me
to be
doing this,
bent over the desk like a besieged person
with a
dull pencil and innumerable lists
of numbers.
Outside the water is blue, the sky is clear,
the tide
rising.
Percy, I say, this has to be done. This is
Essential. I’ll be finished eventually.
“Keep me in your thoughts,” he replies. “Just because
I can’t
count to ten doesn’t mean
I won’t remember yesterday, or anticipate today.
I’ll give you ten more minutes,” and he does.
Then
shouts – who could resist – his
Favorite words: Let’s go!
