Broken Finger, Sleepy Writing
I haven't blogged in some time, and now I'm paying the price for my negligence by having to type with a broken finger. (A football injury from this past Saturday.) Strangely, this injury has made me want all the more to do the things that are made difficult by it. Play the piano. Crochet. Type. Because these actions are now difficult, I want to do them. It's sort of like in elementary school when I wouldn't want a hand-me-down shirt until my sister wanted it. Then I would be upset not to have it.
So here I am catching up, typing poorly with a broken finger.
I'd like to share a few short paragraphs I wrote last night just before I fell asleep. (Actually, I drifted off several times in the course of writing this.) I'm not sure what it means, but I find it amusing and I'm classifying it as "sleepy writing," something that I enjoy doing immensely because I'm always surprised in the morning with what I have written. (Sometimes I can scarcely remember what it was until I reread it.)
Haunted House
The stated reason I got my dog, Sue, several years ago was—“for companionship,” “so I’d have someone to come home to.” The secret reason I got her (not so secret anymore) was because I’ve always been scared of ghosts—of haunted houses. A dog like Sue (medium size, smart) seemed like the perfect scapegoat for anything that could happen that might be considered supernatural. A chair has been moved? Must have been the dog. A plant knocked over? That silly dog!
This all worked well until an evening in mid-December. I had put up my Christmas tree several days prior, and I was spending a few quiet moments before bedtime enjoying the lights and silence. (The silence of a house not haunted.)
Sue waltzed into the room and sat down beside my feet. Then she cocked her head to the side, looked at me with her large brown eyes, and opened her mouth.
“I will probably never speak to you again after today,” Sue said. “But I did want to let you know that I very much prefer the kibble you used to feed me to the new kibble you’ve been filling my dish with for the past week. I’m not asking you to throw the bag out. I’ll eat it. But when it’s gone and time to buy new, I’d very much appreciate going back to the old variety. And I thank you.”
Then Sue laid down to take a nap.
Dumbfounded, I had no idea what to say. Surely a bizarrely talking dog is worse than a haunted house. That night, I slept with my bedroom door closed and locked.
The following morning when I descended the stairs, Sue met me like usual. Wagging her tail, stretching. She was just like a regular dog again.
And true to her word, Sue has not said another word to me. I did return to buying the old kibble even before the new bag was gone. I hope that was the right thing to do.
Sometimes when Sue looks at me and wags her tail, I think it must have been. And I’m OK with everything. Because a ghost, I believe, would have been more difficult to satisfy.
The End
So here I am catching up, typing poorly with a broken finger.
I'd like to share a few short paragraphs I wrote last night just before I fell asleep. (Actually, I drifted off several times in the course of writing this.) I'm not sure what it means, but I find it amusing and I'm classifying it as "sleepy writing," something that I enjoy doing immensely because I'm always surprised in the morning with what I have written. (Sometimes I can scarcely remember what it was until I reread it.)
Haunted House
The stated reason I got my dog, Sue, several years ago was—“for companionship,” “so I’d have someone to come home to.” The secret reason I got her (not so secret anymore) was because I’ve always been scared of ghosts—of haunted houses. A dog like Sue (medium size, smart) seemed like the perfect scapegoat for anything that could happen that might be considered supernatural. A chair has been moved? Must have been the dog. A plant knocked over? That silly dog!
This all worked well until an evening in mid-December. I had put up my Christmas tree several days prior, and I was spending a few quiet moments before bedtime enjoying the lights and silence. (The silence of a house not haunted.)
Sue waltzed into the room and sat down beside my feet. Then she cocked her head to the side, looked at me with her large brown eyes, and opened her mouth.
“I will probably never speak to you again after today,” Sue said. “But I did want to let you know that I very much prefer the kibble you used to feed me to the new kibble you’ve been filling my dish with for the past week. I’m not asking you to throw the bag out. I’ll eat it. But when it’s gone and time to buy new, I’d very much appreciate going back to the old variety. And I thank you.”
Then Sue laid down to take a nap.
Dumbfounded, I had no idea what to say. Surely a bizarrely talking dog is worse than a haunted house. That night, I slept with my bedroom door closed and locked.
The following morning when I descended the stairs, Sue met me like usual. Wagging her tail, stretching. She was just like a regular dog again.
And true to her word, Sue has not said another word to me. I did return to buying the old kibble even before the new bag was gone. I hope that was the right thing to do.
Sometimes when Sue looks at me and wags her tail, I think it must have been. And I’m OK with everything. Because a ghost, I believe, would have been more difficult to satisfy.
The End
posted by Erin Berger Guendelsberger at
1:12 PM
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2 comments
