My Guitar is on my bed. What about it, you might wonder, but it is like that blank page that just won’t cough up an idea. It lies there, accusingly, waiting for inspiration or the guilts to hit. Well, it won’t be the guilts, Elvis, me old trout. Yes, Elvis is my guitar’s name; I told you I’m old.
You see, Elvis has a special job in my house. He not only makes pretty sounds, but he keeps the dogs off the bed. As I’ve said so many times before, home is where the dog hair sticks to everything except the dog. Elvis makes sure I have a dog hair free place to lay my head at night, and I do love him for the fine job he does as well as his mellow voice.
Now, I said it wouldn’t be the guilts that got, and it won’t. Guilt is a wasted emotion, besides; I did my housework, ran my errands, wrote my pages, and edited my chapters. It has been raining torrents so I don’t feel guilty about not walking the dogs. Nope, I’ve had a busy and productive day, so Elvis can just lay there and do his job.
I don’t have a good picture of Elvis right now, so I’ll just show you the four shedders, my beloved boys.
Aw crap, I just got word the boats have tied up for the day. High winds are making it too dangerous for them to carry passengers, so that means K is stuck in the city for the night and sI’m on my own. …Sigh… snif… think I’ll go hug Elvis; I feel a sad ballad coming on.
So, who keeps the pet hair off your bed?