Time to Write

                I’ve almost finished my second official week as a cashier at Stop & Shop. I got my first paycheck today (though I have to take it back to get a few things sorted out), and I’ve got my schedule for next week (which consists of morning and one afternoon shift). I’ve pretty much got the whole cashier figured out. There are a few things I still need to learn, but I am still new.

                One problem I’ve found with working is that I don’t seem to have time to write. And before you say anything, I did say “I don’t seem” to have the time. Maybe it’ll change when I work during the day rather than at night. But the problem is that I seem to get home when my parents are home, and I feel like I have to spend time with them. Then there’s Grace to take care of, who is usually bouncing off the walls because she’s been stuck in her crate for five or six hours.  And by the time I sit down to write, my watch reads ten at night, and I have to shut off the computer to have any chance of falling asleep by eleven.

                As for the mornings, I could be writing then (are here are some excuses why I’m not). But I don’t get out of bed until eight-thirty or nine in the morning. That, I know, needs to change. Even then I still feel like I have a hard time getting things done in the morning. It’s as if I need those morning hours to get myself amped up and moving.

                I’ve got a bunch more excuses too.

                Grace for one. She’s active and looking for trouble for about an hour after we get up, and then she crashes in her bed, sleeping for the next three or so hours.

                Number two is my laptop. The battery is slowly becoming less and less happy about holding a charge. As a result, I may get two and a half hours out of it before needing to plug it in to charge for somewhere in the neighborhood of four hours.

                I could always write at my desk, where the laptop can charge. But then I’d have to move Grace into her crate, and she just looks so peaceful lying there in her bed. I don’t trust her not to get into trouble if she wakes up and I’m not there.

                See? Excuses. If I had more time, I’m sure I could come up with a dozen more.

                There are always reasons not to write. I’ll always have something I think I should be devoting my time toward.  That’s exactly how I felt when I was at school and why I loved workshop classes that gave me a hall pass (so to speak) to write. And when I didn’t have workshop classes, I consoled myself by saying that I’d have all the time in the world to write once I graduated. So I would work on something else that needed to get done before writing. I would work on a history paper, a thesis, or a literature paper. I would study or read for class. I wouldn’t write.

                Now my excuses are lacking the time amidst the puppy, family, and work. I need to stop letting those excuses keep me from writing. I want to write, I really do. I just need to make a schedule and stick to it.

                I need to pick one or two hours a day, put the dog in her crate in my room, and sit at the computer with the wifi turned off. I need to make myself stare at a blank Word document and force my fingers to move over the keyboard until the screen in front of me is no longer blank. I need to make myself write again because I love it when I do. I love writing and getting lost in the story and characters. I miss it.

                And so the point behind this post is really simple. I’m sure you’ve all figured it out despite my convoluted and repetitive writing. I need to quit making excuses. I need to start writing. 

A New Game

            I foresee Grace not eating again this morning when she bolts past her full food bowl, into the living room, and pounces on her Nylabone toy. She growls and tosses it across the floor. Her muscles quiver in all the excitement as she darts around the room.

            “Grace, enough,” I say.

            I know exactly where this is going: this slight bouncing will lead to an all out energy explosion with Grace running on the couch, down the hall, and into the kitchen. She’ll jump on me and nip if I don’t get the leash to control the situation in time.

            I step toward the end of the six foot leash, and Grace bolts. I get my foot on the end of the leash before she can pull it away from me. But she doesn’t calm down. Grace leaps at me, jumping up and biting my t-shirt. I dodge her teeth as I grab the leash.

            “No.” I yank the leash hard, and I hear the metal of the training collar chink as it slides. “Sit.”

            I pull a handful of times before Grace parks her butt on the carpet. I don’t see any sign of malice in her brown eyes, only excitement. She’s not being bad on purpose. She just has a lot of energy and doesn’t know where to put it.

            Still, I’m annoyed. My puppy may be wound tighter than a spring; however that doesn’t give her the right to jump and nip.

            “Heel,” I order.

            I march into the kitchen with her at my side, and I stop suddenly. Part of me hopes she doesn’t sit, despite her training to the contrary. But Grace sits, and she looks up at me with her big eyes so full of energy. She just wants something to do.

            An idea pops into my head. Grace’s trainer suggested something at one lesson to focus her energy. I’ve never done anything like it before with either Grace or my first dog. What’s a better time to try than now?

            I put Grace in her crate, head downstairs to the garage, and grab five milk crates. I placed them in a straight line in the backyard before remembering that I need her favorite outside toy, a red octopus that squeaks. I find it in the toy bucket and then toss it under one of the crates.

            Anticipation pools in my stomach, making me feel lighter and infusing my muscles with a shot of adrenaline. I can’t wait to get outside. This is going to be fun.

            I head back inside to grab Grace.

             “Let’s go,” I say.

            She scrambles out of the crate, through the kitchen, and to the back door. She almost flies down the stairs to the garage, and I tug on the leash to slow her down.

            “Easy,” I tell her.

            We step on the porch, and Grace spots the milk crates.

            I ease the tension on the leash. “Find toy, Grace. Find toy.”

            She trots over to the milk crates, sniffing the hard black plastic. After pacing the line twice, her nose hones in on the middle crate. She keeps sniffing it, and she doesn’t seem to be interested in the other ones.

            I smile proudly.

            “Good girl, Gracie-Gray,” I say.

            I flip over the crate and toss her the red octopus. I watch her leap onto the toy, her teeth clamping down on the squeaky head. I’m not sure if she realizes that she’s supposed to use her nose to find the toy yet.

             And I don’t think she realizes the implications of this little game. We can train to track a scent during competitions to see which dog is the best tracker. Or we can enter the world of search and rescue dogs, responding to emergencies all over the country and world. We may also just keep this little game of ours in the backyard. It may end up being just a little game we play whenever someone has more energy than the house can handle.

            “Come on, Grace,” I say. “Let’s do this again.”

            I put her in the garage and reset the milk crates for another round. I feel excited when I bring her out a second time. I knew I could do a lot of things with my dog. I never thought I’d actually be doing them.