At Least They're Committed

It worked fine yesterday in the office, of course. But now as I test out my ability to work at home (while waiting for my new washing machine to arrive), it’s giving me fits. I guess I’m only linked to pages in Contribute within a mile or two of the office. Dunno. Sigh. That’s OK, I’m improvising. It’s working. I’m good at that.

I’m not as frazzled as I typically would be in this sort of situation because I’m finding my home life when I’m not home wildly amusing. The “rodents” (ferrets, and yes, I know they’re weasels and not rodents) are throwing a wild party: Chubby Raphael is climbing across the top of the wire cage, hanging down just far enough for the albino Louie to attack him from below. Much hissing and merriment going on. In the meantime, Pita the Lithe is mangling the blanket, alternately attacking then crawling under the red cloth. Sid, the homeless dying cat, is sitting cageside motionless except for his shaggy head rolling and flitting to catch all the action. The injured “She,” having awakened me at 6:30 a.m. with vicious puppy bites, is at the vet — her wound clean enough to be stitched.

Amid trying to post on Network, which Contribute won’t let me see unless I hit the ‘Edit’ button, debating design on the DSF ad, answering e-mails and updating WebEvent, there’s a scratch on the door upstairs. Shadow the German Shepard-greyhound has successfully feigned sleep long enough for schoolbound Darian to let him stay in during the dark hours of the morning. I let out “Mommy’s Little Piggy” (he doesn’t eat well, so I enlist the A Christmas Story psychology) who is at this point very waggly and eager for a potty break. Raul, the pit-husky, is already out and Beulah, the black whatever, is sound asleep on Dante’s bed.

Oddly enough, in spite of taking this short writing break, I’m fairly productive. My unwashed self started working at 7 a.m., I’ll take my lunch walk at noon, and probably sneak into work for some slight Network restructuring after the washing machine dude or dudette delivers.

The Three Amigos have worn themselves out, curling into a singular furball, one indiscernible from the other. Sid rests, slightly wheezing at my feet. He was dumped at the vet clinic at age 16. The cancer in his sinuses slowly worsens, but he’s not uncomfortable yet. Shadow and Raul joyfully cut swaths across the back yard only because they don’t know I can see through the slats in the sliding glass door blinds (it would be embarrassing to be caught in the indignity of camaraderie, you see).

Methinks there’s something to working at home once in awhile, either that or bringing pets in to work. Not all the time, though. Hell no. I’d perish without my social-human interaction with my coveted colleagues, Ellen and the guys in the next building. Once in awhile, though . . .