By Anne Sullivan
Every day, between barking, eating and napping, Sylvia took pen in paw and wrote and wrote and wrote. By Saturday she’d filled one entire spiral college-ruled notebook and I was forced to give her another. With trepidation I noted the pages piling up and wondered how she could find so much to write about in 12 short years (certainly years that seemed very short to me) during which she’d never left Swingle Canyon except for a few protesting visits to the vet.
It crossed my mind that, at this rate, she just might possibly finish writing 200 typed pages and, according to our deal, I would have to send the typed manuscript to publishers and make every possible effort to get it published.
I consoled myself with the thought that typing would take Sylvia a long time. Paws are not made for hitting computer keys, especially not Sylvia’s gargantuan paws. She had long complained about the task whenever I refused to help her.
“How are you coming, Sylvia?” I asked with false cheer.
“Good, good,” she raised her head from the paper to answer. “This book is bestseller material, I just know it. I’ve got so much to say, I’ll probably have to write a sequel.”
“Oh,” I said, “That’s nice. When do you think you’ll be finished?”
“Probably next week.”
“Then you’ll have to type it. That will take you a good while, I’m sure.”
“It would if I was going to type it myself.”
“Oh,” I said, taken aback. “Who are you going to get to type it? I can’t possibly do it. I’m far too busy.”
“Don’t worry about it, boss. Gordo will do anything for money. And those tiny claws ought to get the job done in no time.”
“Does Gordo know how to type?”
“He can learn,” Sylvia said with confidence.
“And how are you going to pay him? I didn’t know you had any money.”
“The good lord will provide. Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” Sylvia chanted and later added, “As a matter of fact, I think I’ll teach Gordo now and he can type what I’ve already written. Then I can tweak it on the computer.”
“Good idea,” I said, biting the bullet. “Gordo’s on the porch now. Why don’t you chase him in and start the lessons.”
Sylvia put down her manuscript with a sigh and barked at Gordo while I held the door open for the historic moment when Gordo would enter my house for the very first time. Unlike RingWorm, he had neither curiosity nor inclination to do more than cry pathetically at the door. Since I am allergic to cats I did little to encourage him. I must say, once inside, Gordo looked none too happy about the situation but cheered up rapidly when I poured him a dish of Party Mix.
I could tell by the grumbling grinding noise and rattle that Sylvia had turned The Computer on. In another 15 minutes it would be ready for business.
When the noise turned to the loud hum of a truck going by, Sylvia herded Gordo into The Computer Room. From the kitchen I caught a glimpse of Gordo standing on the chair, Sylvia hovering over him. Now and then Sylvia would bark sternly and slap Gordo’s paws. On his part, Gordo made almost constant whining noises. I knew how he felt.
The lesson continued for over two hours before Gordo was allowed out for a drink of water and a run. Sylvia resumed her writing without letup. I had to shoo her out of the house to get some fresh air.
”I can’t stay outside long,” she said. “I’ve got to keep going. There’s a book in me and it’s got to come out.”
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