We All Have Our Crack Pipes

After twenty solid minutes of playing outside, this obsessed little mutt promptly brought me his slobber soaked ball and demanded - yes, DEMANDED (watch the video) - that we continue our exercise in the hallway - half the hallway actually as it runs the entire length of the house and I was afraid he'd have a stroke. He CAN'T stop. Even if his tongue is hanging out and he's gasping for his last breath, he can't help himself. He can't stop. Oh, and no hesitating in between throws either or he gets very testy! He needs his fix!

Toby is an addict and that yellow tennis ball is his crack pipe. That ball stalks me. Wherever I go in my house, it suddenly appears. Look up and there's half an ear or nose waiting around the door for me to get the hint. I go to the bathroom and the ball appears. Look up. The ear is waiting around the door again. It's like a fetch horror movie.

And, today it dawned on me.

I, too, have a crack pipe. Even when I'm dog tired and collapsing in my bed, there are still stories swirling around in my head. I'll go to my laptop with an agonizing migraine (yeah, they're back - I dropped my meds) rather than let a story fade with time. Last night - er, this morning, I was writing notes at 4:00 a.m. because I had a brilliant - BRILLIANT - idea on the way to the bathroom.

I shudder to think what that idea reads like in the light of day, but that's not the point. The point is that we all have our crack pipes - metaphorically speaking. Writing is mine. And, possibly yours since you obviously read writer blogs...