Life is Good!
Trixie Koontz, Dog
Dad teaches me to type. Hold pencil in mouth and type. At first is fun. Then is not fun. He says to me, "Write, Trixie, write. Write essay for website." Being good dog, I write. Not fun, but I write. Expect treat for writing. Get no treat. Stop writing. Get treat. Carob biscuit. Good, good, good. Okay, so I write some more.
Dad promises website visitors my essay end of July. Must give up important ball chasing, important napping, important sniffing to write. Work hard. Writing hard. So many words. Stupid punctuation rules. Hate semicolons. Hate; hate; hate. Chew up many pencils in frustration.
Finish article. Give to Dad. Then I rip guts out of duck. Duck is not real, is Booda duck, stuffed toy. I am gentle dog. Cannot hurt real duck or even cat. But am hell on stuffed toys. Work off my tension. Rip, rip, rip. Feel pretty good. Cough up soggy wad of Booda-duck stuffing. Feel even better.
Dad gives editorial suggestions. Stupid suggestions. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He is not editor, is writer. Like me. I pretend to listen.
Am actually thinking about bacon. Bacon is good. Bacon is very good. I am good, too. People call me "good dog, good, very good." Bacon is very good. I am very good. But I am not bacon. Why not? Mysterious.
Then I think about cats. What is wrong with them? Who do they think they are? What do they want? Who invented them, anyway? Not God, for sure. Maybe Satan? So nervous writing about cats, I use too many italics. Then I hit hateful semicolon key; don't know why; but I do it again; and whimper.
Dogs are not born to write essays. Maybe fiction. Maybe poetry. Not essays. Maybe advertising copy.
Here is my advertising copy: BACON IS VERY GOOD. BUY BACON. BUY LOTS OF BACON. GIVE TO ME. THANK YOU.
Dad gives me editorial notes for study. Eight pages. I pee on them. He gets message.
Dad says he will give my essay to webmaster as is. Webmaster is nice person, nice. She will know good writing when she sees it.
Days pass. Weeks. Chase ball. Chase rabbits. Chase butterfly. Chase Frisbee. Begin to notice sameness in leisure-time activities. Pull tug-toy snake. Pull, pull, pull. Pull tug-toy bone. Pull tug-toy rope. Lick forepaw. Lick other forepaw. Lick a more private place. Still do not taste like bacon. Get belly rub from Mom. Get belly rub from Dad. Mom. Dad. Mom. Dad. Get belly rub from Linda, Dad and Mom's assistant. Get belly rub from Elaine, Dad and Mom's other assistant. Linda. Elaine. Linda. Elaine. Dad. Mom. Get belly rub from Elisa and Paula, housekeepers. Elisa. Paula. Elisa. Paula. Linda. Elaine. Mom. Dad. Belly rub, belly rub. Read Bleak House by Charles Dickens, study the brilliant characterizations, ponder the tragedy of the human condition. New tennis ball. Chase, chase, chase. Suddenly is September.
Webmaster asks where is Trixie essay. Where? Dad lost. Dad got busy working on new book, got busy and forgot Trixie essay, and lost it. My human ate my homework. Sort of.
All my hard work, my struggle, all those hateful semicolons-for what? All for nothing. Essay lost. All for nothing. Feel like character in Bleak House. Worse. Like character in Joseph Conrad book.
Think about getting attorney. Get agent instead. Writing fiction. Novel. Maybe knock Dad off best-seller list. Teach him lesson. Writing novel called My Bacon by Trixie Koontz, Dog. Already have invitation from Larry King, David Letterman, be on shows, do publicity, sell book, get belly rub from Dave. Maybe get limo for media tour. Ride around in limo, chasing cats. Life is good when you're a dog.
Life is Good!