Nine years ago, writing was a dream that didn't make it to the forefront of my brain very often. My kids were 4, 6, 7, and ten, keeping me too busy to string sentences coherently.
But as time went on, and the desire to write grew and even became reality, one thing was constant.
My furry muse.
A warm, doggy body curled up beneath my desk.
Expressive brown eyes that seemed to understand when the words just wouldn't come.
And immediate forgiveness for the times I kept on typing and took for granted that he was there.
Six weeks ago, a rare form of leukemia reared its head. He fought hard, but today Aspen was given a well-deserved rest.
But the space under my desk feels awfully empty.
Thanks for listening. Here's hoping that there's a muse in your life.