Daisy dog

The dog sleeps. Or not. She turns on the bed, sighs, and dozes again, dreaming of eternally elusive squirrels. The sun slides across the window, illuminating first the pillow, then the bedspread, then the floor. The dog scratches her ear. She gazes at me with mournful eyes. Wouldn’t I like to play? Take a walk trailing that long red leash? Stand in the dog park idly chatting with strangers while she romps? I do not make eye contact. The dog goes back to sleep. Or not. My fingers dance across the keyboard, words flashing, written, erased, always marching onward to fill a page. She doesn’t notice when the clicking stops. She doesn’t judge when I play solitaire. I stand and she is instantly awake, tail wagging as she trots at my heels. So eager, my shadow. She watches me make lunch with unfounded optimism. She watches me eat it with resignation. The bed awaits her return, the covers rumpled and smelling like dog. The keyboard resumes its erratic clicks. The sun drifts westward. The dog sleeps. Or not.