I’m sitting at my desk, glaring at the blank page in my spiral notebook and pulling at my hair with both hands, when Fleegle flip-flaps through his dog door. “Ooo-ooo, do that to my fur. I love scalp massages.” He comes over and leans against my leg. “Please.”

I continue pulling at my hair with my left hand, but use my right hand to scratch Fleegle’s head. “Oh, boy, you deserve a biscuit for this,” he says.

Normally I would respond by commenting that he wants me to have a biscuit because he knows I would share, but when I remain quiet, he looks up at my sour expression and sees my grumpy demeanor and asks, “What’s wrong, Raud?”

“I’ve got writer’s block.”

“Oh, can I have one. You know how I like to chew on wood. It is wood isn’t it?”

“Very dense wood.”

“Good. Where is it?”

“Inside my head.”

“Umm… It might hurt getting it out. How’d you get it inside there? Did you swallow it?”

I shake my head. “No, I imagined it.”

“Like the imaginary friend you swear at in the car when the lights turn red?”

“Something like that.”

“You need to get a green light for your desk. Click it on and I bet it would make your block go away. It works on your imaginary friend.”

 

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