I was talking with an author friend about writing distractions the other day and it got me thinking about the biggest distractions to me over the years (er, um, besides Facebook, the time-suckiest thing ever invented), and I realized for me, hands-down, it's our pets.
So I wrote this piece about that, which I thought I'd share with you:
For many years my household was a veritable menagerie. At one point we
had our parrot (more on her in a minute), two dogs (one a complete reprobate),
a cat and a rabbit, not to mention three kids at home. Back then I surprised
even myself by being able to hone my focus despite the myriad distractions that
were implicit with our many four-legged (and two-legged) creatures. The kids
were the easy part--I got to be so disciplined I’d even whip out my laptop and
work on my novels while in the pick-up line at school for ten minutes, or on
the sidelines of soccer practice, which seemed to be pretty much every
afternoon.
The pets were the ones that gave me fits. Our cat, Sushi, has a free pass
for life for being care free (except demanding endless head-scratches while I
write, which does make it tricky typing, not to mention plenty of fur on the
keyboard). Albert the bunny, well, the one thing going for him is that he’s quiet,
which sort of makes him out of sight, out of mind. I’ve always joked that he’s
not particularly engaging, which my daughter (his owner, though we’ve basically
been saddled with him for the past 7 years) takes as a personal affront. But
really, he is completely void of personality. But like I said, at least he’s
silent.
Our Labrador Sassy, who passed away last year was mostly calm and
cooperative except when nudged into naughtiness by our Australian cattle dog
dingo-esque mutt Bridget, who we lost two years ago and almost until the end
had a wild streak that knew few bounds. We called her the Pick-Up Truck Dog
Living the Mini-Van Life, and she never met a containment system that she
couldn’t evade.
What this meant was frequent interruptions from writing when I would get
a call from the neighbors that the dogs got out “yet again” and were wandering
the neighborhood, one terrorizing people and pets, as she had a glint in her
half-blue/half-brown eye that spooked people, and a ferocious bark that ensured
those nearby stood up and took notice. She was generally harmless but
nevertheless, I spent many a writing afternoon piling into my mini-van, driving
through the neighborhood with the door open, at the ready to shove wayward dogs
into the car before they could evade my capture.
When home, Bridget spent far too many of her waking hours barking—at the
wind, at blowing leaves, at doorbells, at delivery people, at cars driving by,
at imaginary creatures, I swear it. I would often have to either don a pair of
industrial earplugs or blast my iPod to stop dwelling on the shrill bark that
pinned my ears back with its particularly annoying pitch.
We loved our Bridget but she was good at trying my patience and
precluding my getting in dailiy word counts. But none of our pets has been
quite as masterful at that as has Graycie, our African Grey parrot that
was a gift to us in 1990 and has now, to all of our surprise, been with us for
27 years—some of them longer than others ;-). Greys are brilliant creatures,
and are quite gifted in outwitting their keepers.
To be sure, I’m not a fan of keeping parrots as pets—I think they belong
in the wild. But ours came back from Africa one Christmas as a gift and there
she was, and here we are, about ten million parrot poops later, with a somewhat
domesticated yet wild-at-heart parrot who more than a quarter of a century
later thrills when she is able to clamp down her beak on my flesh and draw
blood. It’s what keeps her young, I’m convinced. I know it sounds a little
paranoid to say that she thrives on challenging my sanity, but at times it does
seem that way. Because she will not ever allow me to just sit down at my
desk—not particularly strategically located in our open floor plan
kitchen/living room/dining room, where she, too, resides—without her demanding
that she be freed from her cage to perch atop a large “tree” perch.
Which is all fine except that persuading her to go from said cage is no
simple feat, and sometimes i just don’t have the time, desire, or inclination
to do so. The rest of the family also got parrots that Christmas of yore, and
not a one of them balks at being left in their large cages. But Graycie,
ah….Graycie, she is wont to let her will be known. In the form of either
dragging her beak across the metal bars of the cage like an ornery prisoner
thrown in the drunk tank on an episode of Gunsmoke, or plucking the bars with
her beak incessantly, like some audio form of Chinese water torture until she
gets her wish. But granting that wish can take precious time, because she
doesn’t just walk from cage to branch. No. She wants bribes, in the form of
peanuts, and for me it is a test of wills to see who wins. Long ago our vet
warned us to use peanuts sparingly, and that they’re bad for the bird’s health
and can clog arteries. So I simply won’t give them to her except on rare
occasion. But my husband chooses the path of least resistance and freely feeds
them to her (which of course creates a mess of shredded peanut shells
reminiscent of the concrete floor of a baseball stadium after a World Series
match). So I try to lure her with veggies, and what self-respecting bird with
the congition of a 3-year old would settle for health food when she can wield
her powers of annoyance to win the junk food prize?
Instead what she ends up doing to climbing down the cage, onto the floor,
click-clacking her little black clawed-feet across the hardwoods, walking
backwards while looking over her shoulder, as if some cloak-and-dagger spy,
ensuring she won’t be caught. Her goal? To get to the cabinet where the peanuts
are stored. If she won’t get them from me, then dammit she’ll just have to help
herself. I may have mentioned, parrot beaks are destructive. I have the scars
to prove it. And they can do a number on hardwood cabinets, shoe-molding
electrical cords, you name it. So while I doggedly refuse to accede to the
demands of a petulant parrot, cutting my nose to spite my face since this
interaction is cutting into my writing schedule, she has time on her hands and
nothing better to do, so it becomes a test of wills.
My family all shrug and shake their head at me, wondering why I engage
with a veritable 27-year old toddler on such a regular basis. Particularly when
I have deadlines constantly looming with my editor often drumming her fingers
awaiting my latest submission. And I can’t even find a legitimate excuse for my
own obstinacy, except that I refuse to be outwitted by a bird-brained, well
bird. Even if that brain has the capacity to outwit me, like it or not. And
when she decides to laugh in my voice, practically mocking my idiocy, or makes
a kissing sound and says “I love you”, I really wonder why I can’t just let the
parrot win, and get on with my writing. But I suspect the darker truth is its
all part of my own inherent procrastination tactics, and she’s become a
conspirator in my own efforts to sabotage my writing progress. Sometimes I just
need to remind myself it’s best to ride the horse in the direction it’s
galloping, and then maybe I’ll actually produce some copy!
Well--it turns out another writerly distraction for me is going through pet pictures! I couldn't even decide which to put in so I used lots of them! Hope you found them amusing!!!
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C
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