I have an architectural photo to post. The building has interesting lines. I sit at the keyboard, hunkered down in my lair, without one interesting line in my head.
"Must write must write must write," I think. But I don't type it because it isn't interesting.
"Boz, I'm trying to work." If I hadn't just gotten my hair cut I'd pull it out. But it's too short, I can't get a grip on it. Maybe I'll write about my haircut.
"Not now, Boz."
Nobody cares about my haircut. I consider writing some sort of blahbedy-blah Thanksgiving platitude but I want to save that for tomorrow.
Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!
I look up.
Boz stands at my office door with his stuffed zebra in his mouth. He chomps down, squeaking the squeaker to get my attention.
He is calling me out.
This is war.
I creep out of my cave. He backs away, then trots, then runs. I stalk, then chase Boz across the wide open fields of the dining room, down the dark forest path of the hallway and into the living room's dimly-lit shrubbery. All the while, the zebra cries out for help.
I must try to get the zebra from Boz. I must try, try to save it. I grab and pull, but Boz shakes his head with violence and refuses to relinquish his prey. I give up. No I don't! Boz shoves the zebra at me, daring me to try again, growling in his most horrible, most vicious, "come-back-here-I-won't-kill-you-but-I-could-if-I-wanted-to" growl. I growl, too, a kind of a giggle growl, and we roar at each other while he squeaks the squeaker to the delight of his deep, inner, dichotomous wolf-brain: "I'm killing I'm killing I'm killing! I'm a good boy!"
I let him win. He first extracts the squeaker, the zebra's beating heart. Then, with powerful, sharp teeth, he extracts mouthful after mouthful of the fluffy viscera of dog toy. He relishes his victory, his jaw muscles working, his claws gripping his kill.
Then, amid the carnage, the beast finally rests. He submits to a flash photo only because he's sated now, tired enough to be patient. I'm the impatient one, unwilling to read the directions and photograph in manual mode, in a hurry to shoot the big game before he slinks off to his lair.