By Anne Sullivan
“I need paper. Lots of paper,” Sylvia demanded after breakfast on this hotter-than-yesterday morning.
After a search of the computer room, originally called the library, I handed Sylvia nine sheets of blank paper.
Soon she was writing furiously, covering page after page with a surprisingly legible scrawl. “More paper,” she called. “Quickly now. I don’t want to lose my train of thought. I’m on
a roll.”
I unearthed a dozen more sheets from the piles of various organizations – SAR, BCPL, RAC, DVFD, NMOWP – that overflowed from the table. “There. That should be enough,”
I said.
“It isn’t anywhere near enough,” she complained. “I said ‘lots of paper’ and I mean lots of
paper! You could give me one of those lined spiral notebooks you use – the ones you buy for a dime every fall before school starts.”
“What are you writing?” I asked, handing her a brand-new red college-ruled notebook. “A book?”
“Actually, that’s what I plan to do. I’m just writing notes for my book now. I’ve lived an interesting life here in Swingle Canyon for a number of years now so I’m going to write my autobiography. It ought to sell very well since I’m a dog.”
“I hate to disillusion you but many dogs have already written books.”
“They have?” Her voice trembled as she put down her – -or rather, my - - pen.
“Yes, they’re mostly dogs who live with important people. A number of presidents’ dogs have penned their memoirs. I think Clinton’s dog did and I know Fala wrote about his life with President Roosevelt.”
Sylvia picked up her pen again and put a big X over what she had written. “That’s not fair. You mean I have to live with an important person in order to get published?”
“I don’t think it’s absolutely required, but it certainly would make publishing and sales a lot easier. You need a name that’s recognizable.”
“Then I’m home free. Everyone around here knows who Sylvia is.”
“That may well be here in Catron County but Catron County is not the world.”
“It is around here,” she argued. And sulked for a minute before adding, “It’s all your fault for not being important.”
“I’m sorry for being so inadequate,” I said. “Should I see if the Obamas would like to adopt
you? Of course, they already have Bo. Maybe Bo wouldn’t appreciate the company or the competition.”
“Ha, ha,” Sylvia mocked. “But seriously, if you ran for president and if you got elected, my book could get published.”
“I very much doubt that I could win a presidential election so you’ll have to think of something else.”
“You haven’t even tried,” Sylvia scolded. “I could be your campaign manager. You owe it to me.”
“Just how do you figure that?”
“You’ve kept me here in this canyon in the middle of nowhere without a chance of gaining fame or fortune, that’s how.”
“But, Sylvia, you’re the one who hates to travel anywhere.”
“That’s because of your driving.”
“All right, I’ll make s deal with you. If you finish your book with at least 200 typed pages, I’ll send it to some publishers,” I offered, thinking there was no chance of her finishing it, let alone typing it all.
“Deal.” Sylvia said and we shook hand to paw.
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