Yes, there are a million articles about authors and their cats. They wax rhapsodic about the cat as the perfect author's pet, the one who tolerates your affection but does not demand it, the one who dozes quietly in a basket on the desk, or the one who really does want your affection but is happy to nestle in the author's lap as they write, or even the one who sits on their human's arms, forcing them to peck out one letter at a time on a screen they can't see. I know about Mark Twain's million cats, and Hemingway's. I know that Nnedi Okorafor's has a lot to say on social media, and John Scalzi's Scamperbeasts have more followers than I do, even though I've written several more books than them. Yeah, yeah, I get it. I've had three lovely cats in my lifetime, and none of this is meant to disparage their blessed memories or besmirch the very lovely cats that you all coexist with or have coexisted with in the past.
Still, I will say it: if you want a pet who will actually help with your writing, an author's best friend is absolutely the dog. I would be nowhere without dogs. No books, no stories. Nada. My dogs leash me up and drag me through every word I commit to the page.
Point the first: dogs walk you. My entire argument can be reduced to that, but I'll expand anyway. And yes, I absolutely recognize that there are people who cannot walk, temporarily or permanently, and people who live in places where this isn't possible, and also dogs that can't walk far, and old dogs, and this is not meant to diminish anyone in those situations in any way. For me, my brain works better when I'm getting regular exercise, and I know I'm lucky to have the capacity and the time to do so. Luckier still to have two excellent companions by my side.
I have not set an alarm in years, except on the occasions when I stupidly book an early flight, which usually then involves me creeping out of the bedroom in the dark so as not to face the betrayed eyes of my dogs and/or the exasperation of my wife. I have not set an alarm because I have two dogs who set their own clocks to the rising sun. Yes, the sun rises at different times throughout the year, and yes, the twice-annual clock changes make us all miserable and confused. And this week, the younger dog has decided that we wake up one hour earlier than usual for absolutely no reason whatsoever, and I've had to content myself with the knowledge that he obviously knows better than I do.
That said, every morning, I wake to either our terrier, Sprocket, giving himself a good shake and then jumping onto the bed to share my pillow, or the younger dog, Zimmy, giving a yelp from his crate, interrogating the fairness of the situation. I roll out of bed and the three of us do stretches. Are you an author who sits in a chair all day, and later complains that your back hurts? I highly recommend starting the day with dynamic dog stretches, and then doing more every time your dog does. Dogs remind us of the value of a good stretch.
After our stretches, I throw on something that approximates the clothing that humans wear if they expect to encounter other humans in their day. I brush my teeth in case we run into dog friends who might come within ten feet of me. I choose not to look at my hair, which in the morning is a sort of anti-social Ms. Frizzle situation.
We leash up and head out. Understand that I am not yet awake at this point, but the dogs are. They are smelling things and putting smells on things and investigating the ways the landscape has changed overnight. I am oblivious. My brain is not on yet, but I can start it going. As we walk, no headphones, I start observing with my own meager senses. Blooms that were at their peak the day before have moved inexorably toward decay. The possum skeleton under the boxwood has moved a few feet; it's definitely haunted. Someone has moved into a fairy house nestled in the roots of a catalpa. Which birds are singing today? How can I put the scent of honeysuckle into words?
Eventually, I'm awake enough to think about what I plan to work on that day. Where I left off, what I'm excited about. I remember the cryptic note I left myself as I drifted off to sleep the night before, and mull over whether it still makes sense to me when I'm alert. "Once upon a time," I say, and then insert my own character into the formulaic construction, my own version of "previously on …" What's the first line I'm going to write? I come up with something and let it bounce around my head, honing that single line to perfection. Sometimes I say it out loud, which is okay, because it just looks like I'm talking to my dogs, which is a totally normal thing to do when you're a dog person.
Back home, I feed the beasts, and they return to napping positions. I feed myself, and caffeinate myself, and allow myself to do whatever puzzle I'm addicted to currently (Cine2Nerdle, here's looking at you.)
And then I write. Here's the beauty of dog-assisted writing: by the time I sit down at my computer, I already know where I'm headed. The page is not blank. The edits are not amorphous. I've had time to consider exactly what I'm doing. I have the next line, and the next line is actually a portal to the place where more lines are hanging out, and I invite them all in with no questions asked. The words flow.
I break for lunch. I try to break often. If I don't, a dog tells me to. They need to be let out, or let in, or given something to chew, or played with for a few minutes. They will nap for a couple of hours at a time, at which point their dedicated sleep necessitates that I work, since they are alert to the slightest shift in my attention. If I don't sit still and write for a bit, they'll be up again in an instant. Or a tail thumps, and I can't resist dropping to the floor for a conversation. While I'm there, I stretch, and scratch whichever bellies or ears are presented to me.
Bellies and ears are offered again when I finish an emotional scene. These boys are empathetic. When I start giving off stress vibes, they are upon me. Sprocket will sit on me until he thinks my emotions are under control. Zimmy will lean against me and whack me with a paw until I scratch him, since that will obviously make me feel better. They're both right.
And, okay, sometimes they are aggravating. Sometimes Zimmy can't settle, or just as Zimmy settles, Sprocket's nemesis Puddin' the Yorkie walks by, or the mail carrier walks by, or a stranger walks by, and we have to yell at him/her/them. I've learned to tune it out, which is good practice for writing in noisy conditions such as a stadium concert or a heliport. My wife sometimes asks, "Why don't you tell them to stop barking?" but the truth is I can ignore them so completely I don't even notice they've started. The neighbors love me, I'm sure.
In the afternoon, we walk again. I stop while I'm still excited about what I'm writing, and maybe even a little resentful of this walk, but this is the time to leave myself notes for the next day, and to think about what I've done. Sometimes I write some more. Sometimes I jot down a couple of things I'd like to tweak from that day's work, having thought about it while we walked. At the end of the day, Sprocket lies across me like a seatbelt, conveying his exhaustion and his concern for my well-being. This is the cue to read, or watch some television, or critique a student story.
And look, if you don't like dogs, that's okay too. You can do all of this without them. The breaks, the walking—though you might want to put a Bluetooth thingy in your ear if you want people to think you're not talking to yourself. There are other activities that can approximate the same effect: cooking, cleaning, gardening, running. All of those are things that leave the same type of room for your brain to chew on the puzzle of your work in progress, but they don't compare to a good four-legged writer's assistant. Get to your local shelter and pick one up today.
