Maybe it’s a sign from the universe to allow my menacing novella to step up to the plate and get glued to this great cover. My handwriting is just as atrocious as whoever scribbled this, so it would be easy to replace the author name and pull it off. Actually, I know this isn’t the mysterious forces of the universe. No, it’s just a sign that my dog doesn’t want me to read with great interest and has developed a cruel habit of ripping my books apart when I’m not playing or paying attention to him.

Having a dog can already be a great distraction to literary production, especially if you also have a day job. But having a dog who waits for you to develop a nice writing flow to bark at you and throw everything off or a dog that waits for you to shower before he tears apart the latest book you’ve been reading closely, is an even greater distraction.

This is the only book of mine that he destroyed which I truly wish he hadn’t. Others I had read and remembered what I had read so well that I could return to them through memory without holding them in my hands, but this is a special book because menacing novellas that speak to my childish soul are rare and need to be cherished. The reason I cherish these menacing novellas is that you can inhale them in one reading, thereby reducing the risk that if you take a break to eat, shower, or head off to work, then a great distraction doesn’t sniff around your desk and rip apart the menacing novella. Still, I’d say he’s a great dog, mostly because, despite the possibility that he’ll destroy my books and disrupt my literary production, he can wait until 3pm before he needs to go outside. I don’t know any dog with that kind of discipline, especially in the city, where owners often take their dog out before work in the early morning. Whenever I encounter other dog owners I never speak about his book destruction habits. No, I usually boast about how he doesn’t need to go outside until the late afternoon.

In fact, sometimes I’ll be the one who wants to go to the park and walk around and loosen up my body from spending too much time writing. I’ll grab the leash and say, “Hey, let’s go outside.” Then he would immediately run under the table in the living room to hide and refuse to leave, showing his teeth if I approach to comfort, pet, or encourage him to come outside and play. I know that he’s not protesting this life of being leashed as a psychic anchor to our rituals, that he’s not showing his metaphorical teeth toward systems of domination and control. If he was just rebelling toward anything that distracts me from him or anything that leashes him, then why does he get so excited when I stop trying to put effort in to bring him outside? Why, when I pretend not to care and turn my back on him, indifferent to his basic needs or his access to pleasure, he immediately zooms around the apartment until he’s exhausted and panting. Then he slurps water from his bowl excitedly and waits by the door to get leashed. It’s a funny ritual in our apartment.

To be honest, I haven’t been so thoughtful and forthright in this story so far. The discipline of my dog is not a mystery to the universe. There’s a cause for his greatness. When I think about it, it’s quite obvious that there exists a very potent element here that hasn’t been mentioned, which is my partner, Yehui. She deserves all the credit for my dog’s great discipline and patience. The reason he has great discipline is because she has great discipline, and on the days I’m not around and she’s at the apartment, our dog depends on her rhythms and routines. What I’m trying to say is that Yehui can work for hours and hours, meticulously editing her films toward absolute perfection. She won’t drink, eat, or give in to the dog’s desire to play. I’m convinced she’s the Kobe Bryant of independent documentary filmmaking. She has the Mamba mentality. Our dog doesn’t dare to interfere with her film editing process. What have I taught our dog? Well, he’s the only dog that I know who can dribble a little rubber ball.

Nevertheless, I’m inspired and have been taking a closer look at my routines and my discipline. In many ways, I think my writing is a dog that has been hiding under the table of literature. I know it’s approaching 3pm, but where’s its leash? My writing is at the door, waiting for a master to take it to the park to play.