Thoughts About . . . Having A Day Off
I’m writing another non-fiction book, and I’ve run into a temporary stop. It’s one of those times when I need to read another book that I haven’t received yet, interview another person who is not yet available, and polish a manuscript that is not up to the polishing point.
I stop this process of writing about nothing much when I hear a squeak. My dog is playing with a new toy she received for Christmas. When we adopted this abused and abandoned dog she didn’t even know how to play. She has a good home now and parents who love her. She makes me smile.
My husband usually walks her twice a day, but one day when he was sick I took control of the leash. The two of us were standing at a corner when a bright red convertible sports car pulled up and a perky young lady asked about the dog-walker. I explained, and she said, “I often see him (the dog) walking with his daddy and I wondered if everything is OK.” Then she waved goodbye and sped off, probably to work.
That’s another time that I smiled. Her name is Trotter.
Now, does that mean that I have a Sunday off?