Who’s the muse?
We’re writing, “Two Poofs and a Poodle” and this is a challenge considering I’m a dog, and he think he knows everything.
Steve calls me his muse. He sits at the computer, looks down at me, back to the screen, reads yesterday’s words and waits. “The muse has to turn up,” he says as if this makes sense. He’s stalling, not sure what to write or where to start, but in a minute, he’ll get it together and his fingers will fly over that keyboard. Is this because the muse has turned up or because he’s finally got his thoughts organised?
Our book’s a collaboration of sorts. I channel my ideas to Steve and he types. After 7 years of living together, our thoughts are intimately connected, but sometimes painfully slow in coming.
But am I really the muse? I don’t think so – Maybe sometime, but not always.
If I smile at him and look gorgeous and encouraging like any good muse would, he might write, but more than likely, he’ll get distracted and want to play with me.
When I take him for a walk am I being the muse or is it the exercise that gets his creative ideas flowing?
When we lie on the bed and he shares stories and recollections, am I being the muse or just a good listener?
When we snuggle and gaze off into space remembering life, who is really the muse? Is there a muse, or is life and the memories our inspiration to write?
Muse or no muse here’s a bit of what we managed to write. It’s about the day after I moved in with Bayu and Steve. I hope you like it.
The heady testosterone scent of an office full of men, combines with the cooking aromas from our restaurant and fills my nostrils. Who would run away from this, I think. I’m in heaven.
With the barrier removed, I decide to go for a wee and a little exploring. Every head turns as I stand and stretch. Intimidated, I lie down again and the guys return to their conversations and computers. I wait; stand again and once more the heads turn. I walk to where the half door used to be and their eyes follow. I step into the studio and hear their chairs push back, but ignore it. Reaching the front door opening onto our private lane, I look behind me and I’m the leader of a conga line. There’s Komang, Steve, Kedeng, and even Dede following me, watching my every step. I inhale the aroma from the chicken curry cooking next door and decide that I am prepared to trade off privacy for the pleasures of this new home.
I step into the outdoors, sniff and explore my world. The men shadow me. Finding the perfect spot, I squat and pee, and all eyes stare. “Good girl,” Steve says, bursting with pride. He’s easily pleased. I hope he doesn’t applaud when I take a shit. I stroll the lane, stretching my legs and the security detail tags along. When I’ve had enough, I skip back into my pillow and they all trail along. “See, she’s not going to wander off, not Baby Cakes,” Komang says.
The security detail reduces each time I venture outside and by the end of the day, only eyes follow me.