The sun was actually out the other day.
Not in that dreary-gray winter sky overcast sort of way, but like that new neighbor who seems fascinating and friendly at first and quickly becomes annoying with the late partying and still managing to be up at the ass-crack of dawn on your days off. As though the sun's giving fair warning that we'll be sick to death of it in six months.
However, it's winter right now (though the thermometer totally had me fooled today) and so when the sun was out, I opened all the curtains and let it come streaming through the living room window.
I was not the sole beneficiary.
Because it seems as though my wonderful writing mascot, Iron Mike, has developed some decidedly feline tendencies.
I mean, yesterday I surprised him when I came home from work at an abnormal time. Surprised him so badly that he fell out of his bed into his food bowl, and scattered dry dog food across the kitchen floor. How'd he manage that? Well, his bed might actually be a gigantic dog pillow stuffed into an Adirondack chair. He might actually sleep on his back with his legs in the air, too. So falling out of bed is not unheard of.
The pool of sunshine was definitely less of a mess to clean up. I can only hope we get more before March... Sunshine, not dog food. Jeez.
Though to be fair, despite the fact that it took him until the age of six to stop acting like a puppy, he's finally starting to get old and I can absolutely sympathize with the relaxing quality of radiant sunshine. He also hangs out over the heat vents all winter long, too.
Someone once informed me that my lovely companion has no idea how to be a dog. To which I retorted, "that's fine, because he isn't, not really."
No, Mike would never be able to survive on his own in the wild if civilization as we know it came to a screeching halt. (Few of us humans can claim that ability, though, so the lack is hardly concerning.) He wouldn't be able to interact with other dogs very successfully either, I don't think--but that's fine, because he and I are pack, and I'm not a dog. He doesn't need canine interaction skills, but human ones--and he's developed them in spades. He doesn't have voice commands or formal obedience training, but he doesn't need it. He's always been responsive to my communication, voice fluctuations, body language and gestures. They're a language he's learned to speak fluently enough.
He's become a great source of research material for my writing. Animal behavior, the power of instincts, nonverbal communication, interspecies relationships, and a host of other subjects as well. Okay, yep, probably too many psychology electives in my post-secondary education, but whatever.
Oh yeah, I got sidetracked and forgot why I'd meant to make a blogpost in the first place.
Blog dates and locations for Fragile Bond's promo tour are up over on my website. I should be writing blogposts for it. So I'll get back to that now that I've rambled about my writing mascot as a means of procrastination.
Spring cannot get here fast enough. I'd love more sixty-degree weather, myself.