Readers ask me, “How’s Whiskey, Sweet Al’s hunting dog? Is she still alive?”
And I say, “Only by my good graces.”
One morning recently I walked around like a zombie, red eyes, bad hair, bad mood. No sleep because of Whiskey. The thunderstorm drove her to our bed. She climbed up over my head and laid down on my pillow.
I called out to my Sweet Al. “Help me; Whiskey’s on my pillow.” Not a word. Not a movement. Totally in another world of sleep, I couldn’t jar him. I got out of bed, pulled at his heavy black dog. Shivering and shaking, Whiskey wouldn’t budge.
I called to Al again, “You’ve got to do something with Whiskey.”
In a deep sleep, Al couldn’t think. He got up and tried to pull her from his side.
I said, “Al, go back to sleep. I’ll sleep in the recliner.”
The window cleaner came to wash our windows. He brought his little dog with him. I said to Al, “Put up Whiskey.” He talked babytalk to his dog and pulled at her. She planted her back feet into the carpet and wouldn’t move.
Whiskey looked at the window cleaner’s dog like her next meal. I said to the man, “Our dog is a hunting dog. She goes after little creatures. You need to put your dog in the car.” He didn’t hear. I alerted his helper, “I’m telling you, put the dog in the car.” The helper heard.
Al tells me all the time, “Write something funny.”
I tell him, “Not everything is funny. Do you know what it takes to turn a sleepless night or a little dog about to be eaten into funny? Angst into humor? Mad into glad?”
It’s all Al’s fault. He has turned this big vicious hunting dog into a wimp with a loud husky bark. She won’t go outside unless Al goes outside with her. I have to send Al outdoors in order for Whiskey to do her business. She has separation issues.
The trouble is now she won’t leave my side. Not Al’s side, but my side. What’s that all about? Al says, “She likes you.”
When I gripe about Whiskey licking my hand, my friend says, “Maybe she’s trying to make friends with you.” She is a sweet dog, but really?
I have to look at things differently. I always thought my Sweet Al was my muse, my inspiration. I’ve come to understand he is my angst, my trope. In writing, a muse inspires, but writers need angst, conflict and page-turners. I live with a page-turner and his dog. I should have plenty to write about.
As I drove to town one day, Al thought he was turning off an overhead light. He turned on the StarLink rescue button. There was a constant buzzing and a call for help, “Emergency. Need help?”
I looked for someone to help me. I saw Ken on Lewis Street. I called out to him. “Ken, can you help me turn off the emergency alert?” He did. He turned off the motor. We had a good laugh. I told him, “Al brings noise. One day this will surely make for a good article. But not today.”
I’ve been in a deep fog of heavy material in my column lately, doing a lot of inspirational thinking. It’s time to turn off the motor to all my deep thinking and write something humorous and shallow. I didn’t know it would be sleeping on my pillow. Only by my good graces, Al and Whiskey are still with us and insists on sleeping in my bed.
Conflict is what writers need for a great story. It turns pages for the readers. If you live on the Lower Blanco where nothing happens but an occasional car passing by, you need a Sweet Al to put angst in your life.
Angst is defined as a feeling of deep anxiety or dread, a feeling of persistent worry about something trivial like having a bad hair day. Al fits the bill. That’s what humor is born from.
Final brushstroke: Yes, many times Al has put me in an emergency alert situation. What would I write about if I didn’t have him? I need my Sweet Al and all the angsts he causes me in order to write my next article and story.
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