“I have nothing to write about.”
Everyone has something to say. Everyone has a talent, something to say or something to offer. Saying ‘I have nothing to give, or nothing to say’ is foolishness.
Talk to a friend if you think this isn’t the gospel truth. If you have nothing to offer, then why are they your friend. Many of our greatest artists and writers took their inspiration from their household life. Monet painted his back yard something like fifty times, and they call him a master. Rembrandt rarely left home. Patrick McManus, the humorist, wrote about his family and friends, and he may be the funniest man I have ever read.
The other day, I said I had nothing to say to someone on the phone, when I had an entire comedy routine playing out at my feet.
Enter Gypsy the Psycho Cat, Xena, Princess Warrior Cat, and Duke the (so called) Pit Bull.
Background: Xena and Gypsy were raised by a dog, a Weimeraner/Pit Bull cross. Their mother was a tramp, wandering the streets of Chula Vista at night, rarely coming home. She returned once a day, sometimes less, so Daisy spent most of her time warming the kittens and teaching them to fetch, beg at the kitchen table, and drag their bellies along the carpet. They also chase cats and heel when going for walks. In the words of Dave Barry, “I am not making this up.”
Enter Duke, the So Called Pit Bull.
When Duke came to live with me, via my son moving back in, the dogs in the neighborhood (especially the annoying poodle two doors down) began to behave themselves. They stayed at home, and ceased to stand in my driveway yapping at my cats.
The stray cats also steer clear. Duke is a good family dog and a devoted watchdog. His only fear, if you could call it that, is Gypsy, the Psycho Cat. Duke would like nothing better than to sleep next to my bed at night. Gypsy doesn’t think that is such a good idea, and I am woken in the middle of the night frequently when Gypsy, hiding behind my door or under my bed, comes out and ambushes Duke as he enters the room.
I don’t know why he keeps trying. She terrifies him. He has a bed, a blanket, and his own Laz-E-Boy recliner. But he seems to think that somehow, some day, he will be able to sleep in my room. Its nice of him to feel so devoted, but it is difficult to sleep through a night punctuated with brief but intense combat.
Why can’t they be more like Xena, and sleep through the night out in the guest room with my son?
I think I may be shell shocked.
Watch this space for more on strange but true animal behavior.