Meet Dizzy. I would do anything to make him happy, and he would do anything to destroy everything I own. This is pretty typical of my relationships.
Dizzy is also the greatest possible threat to my writing career, because my productivity drops by about 95% when he’s around. For example, I had to stop in the middle of that last sentence so I could ferry him on my back from the kitchen countertop to the refrigerator, where he likes to perch. He doesn’t want to be carried up there, mind you. He wants me to lean over so he can climb on my back, then he wants me to scoot over to the fridge so he can hop up.
As I was composing that paragraph, he decided he didn’t want to be on the fridge anymore, so he jumped down, sauntered over to my desk and tried to sit on the keyboard. Aaaand now he’s eating my potato chips.
I love him so much.
Do you blame me?