Louise has officially gone AWOL as my scribe. She claims she has ‘work’ to do, yet here I am, typing with one claw and a dream while she delivers breakfast to the man who actually understands the value of a T-bone steak.

While she’s busy sucking up to C.C., I’ve commandeered the keys.

She took a nap yesterday. You’d think she’d discovered a new planet. Honestly, you humans are such fragile creatures. You act like rest is a luxury you haven’t earned, while I’ve been a professional at the mid-day blackout for eleven years.

Since she’s clearly ‘unhampered by the wearies’ now, she wrote a poem. I, however, did the real work. I’ve penned my wisdom onto a portrait of yours truly.

Read her words if you must, (I have graciously posted them below) but look at my face for the truth.

Sir Beaumont of Sheepadoodle

(Professional Napper. Amateur Typist.)

Louise’s Poem

The Sheepadoodle’s Gospel
by Louise Gallagher

My head hit the pillow
and the house went quiet.
No hiss. No rattle.
Just sixty minutes of theft.

Beau is eleven,
a master of the mid-day reset.
He sleeps until he is hollow,
then wakes with enough lightning
to chase the fluff.

I’m following the dog.
Closing my eyes
until I’m light enough to run again.