Can I tell you how special my dog is?
Rigsby sits next to me every time I write. Every. Time. He is right here, now. He likes to sit close. Real close. He likes to edge closer while I type. Closer, closer, until his snout rests on the enter key. I nudge him off. He starts again.
It’s a riot, people. He makes sure that he has the maximum amount of flank sidled against me at all times. And my thigh agrees. It is not happy unless a stretch of curly, black cockapoo fur is close beside it. It doesn’t matter where I am: the couch, my bed, or my desk. If I switch seats, then he switches seats. I call him my co-worker and frequently tease him about being late to work.
His least favorite work site is my desk. On the rare occasion, I sit at my desk and act all professional. Like I can get anything done without a furry mass pressing against me. As if.
When this happens, Rigsby rests his chin on the plastic legs of the rolling chair. Next, he scoots over to my feet and covers them with his warm belly. At this point, it’s impossible not to croon about how amazing and sweet and loyal and adorable he is, in a singsong or baby voice. He puts his front paws on my chair seat and demands eye contact. His gaze laments that we are too far apart. No one, absolutely no one, could resist this.
I do what I have to do. No one can stand that much cuteness. I scoot the chair back. On cue, he jumps into my lap and curls up like a cat. And I get back to work. In fact, that’s how I typed this.
Turns out he is my most valuable writing tool. My muse. My pup. This one’s for you, Rigsby.
Dogs are terrific,