I get up

Do you ever feel like you're chasing your tail?

Or, in my case, chasing two?

The time I spend sitting in my chair at my dining room table is done in increments according to what mess Tuck is making at the moment, and depending on where Skye has decided to jaunt off to.

A typical evening may look like this:

Sit down to eat my overcooked salmon and fresh sugar snap peas. Tuck grabs the foil out of the trash and saunters off.

I get up. Get the foil, throw it away.

Sit back down to dinner. Tuck grabs the foil out of the trash and saunters off.

I get up. Chase him around the kitchen until I grab the foil. Put the trash on the microwave.

Sit down to dinner. Tuck grabs my sweatshirt off the top of the microwave.

I get up. Grab the sweatshirt, put it back.

Sit down to eat dinner.

Sit down to edit a story. Tuck and Skye jog off.

I get up to call them back.

Return to edit story. Tuck and Skye jog off.

I get up to call them back.

Return to story.

Move on to edit a second story. Tuck plays too rough with Skye.

I get up to yell at him.

Sit back down with story. Tuck grabs my flip-flop and runs outside.

I get up to find it.

Back to work. Tuck finds the dust pan and runs off with it.

I get up, sweep the floor, go outside to fetch dust pan.

Return to story. Tuck starts chewing his leash.

I get up and take it off him.

Sit down again.

I get up a lot and for other reasons too.

I'm a restless writer, a restless editor. At just the moment when I'm feeling most inspired, I have to get up and walk away, get tea, coffee, something, and then return.

I get up and sweep.

I get up and start dinner cooking.

I get up and run the dogs through a training exercise.

I get up and talk to the neighbor.

I get up and pluck my eyebrows.

I get up and wash the dishes.

Getting up is in my DNA, I guess.