Creativity and inspiration notwithstanding, writing often boils down to establishing–and honoring–a routine. That’s something my pups know all about.
The second I stir in the morning, whether it’ s5:30 a.m. or 6:30 a.m. (never any later than that I’m sorry to say), the dogs know it’s time for breakfast.With a joyful and irreconcilably irritating bark fest they race downstairs, only heading outside at my insistence. Three of the four are back as soon as they can whip a U-turn. That’s when the break(fast) dancing starts. And I have to tell you, my blind cocker can really leap when he’s waiting for food.
I load up the bowls with kibble and, per the vet’s directions, a splash of water, and distribute them in sequence. Hoover always goes first. He’s the oldest. He’s the only one who was actually planned. And he’s blind which gives him special privileges. I set down his bowl with an audible plunk and call his name. He snuffs around until he finds his food. His happy grunts of delight can be heard as I place Dashiell’s bowl in the corner by the refrigerator. Already patrolling their spots, Sophie and Ziggy patiently wait their turns.
The dogs eat with unrivaled focus and bolt through the dog door to do the business they neglected when I initially let them out. All four generally make it back to the bed before I’ve finished piling on the pillows. Then they settle down for their morning siesta.
Shower time is equally systematic. Ziggy mans the bathmat, waiting for me to emerge so he can lick the water off my legs. As soon as I’m dry, Sophie–who wedges herself in by the vanity and the tub–ducks her head to signal that she’s ready for her morning snuggle. I kneel down to give her love. That’s Ziggy’s cue to find a toy which he then drops on my head. (Mind you, this happens every morning.) The second I start slathering lotion on my legs to combat the high desert dryness, Dashiell assumes his role as excess-lotion remover. Hoover helps when he’s in the mood or when his sniffer clues him in to the opportunity.
Lately the routine has expanded to include a daily pre-show
er 30 minutes on the treadmill. In a grand show of support, all the pups follow me into the art-filled exercise room I created two years ago and have only just started to actually use. Dashiell curls up under the desk or the vintage hutch originally designed to store pies. Sophie stretches out by the door, while Hoover settles in whatever safe, empty spot seems most appealing that morning.
Ziggy doesn’t lie down. After making sure that I am indeed getting on the treadmill, he dashes off to seek out a toy, returning whenever possible with his stuffed football or an alternate like the stuffed llama. He places the toy ever so gingerly on the treadmill base, about a foot from where my feet clump down step after step.
“Bring it closer,” I say.
Every so carefully, he moves the toy–and his mouth since he refuses to relinquish his prize–closer to the edge of the rolling mat. Finally the stuffed whatever either starts to catch or he decides that it’s close enough to me. With reluctant delicacy, he finally releases the toy and backs away so that I can kick it. He catches it in mid-air or jauntily retrieves his misses. Then the game starts all over again.
These days Sophie joins the fun. Just as Ziggy moves his toy to the optimal spot, she swoops in, steals the stuffie and prances out the door. Ziggy scrambles after her, returning with his prize as soon as she’s gotten bored and dropped it. He chews on it for 20 seconds, then turns to the treadmill. By then So
phie has returned. You can guess the rest.
Of course, there are also routines affiliated with outings, with greeting guests, with dinner and with bedtime among others. We writers can learn from my dogs. Think about the pages we’d amass with such consistent discipline, such willingness to adapt, and such unrelenting satisfaction–or even joy–in the routine itself rather than the results.
Maybe it’s time you created a routine for yourself–a writing routine.
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