A Reimaging of the Muse

The muse is clingy this morning.

Plastered to my hip like a warm, fuzzy band-aid, she is snoring to the beat the band. I wonder if this bodes ill or well for my writing day?

*sighs*

Aren’t muses usually fluttery little things that dance in the sunlight? (Picture butterflies with feet.)

Or, at least, ethereal souls wrapped in fine silk togas? (Picture Greta Garbo on the steps of Delphi.)

Furry, fifteen pound dogs who take haughty exception to bows in their ears and cats in the universe are not the typical muses.

Well, maybe they should be.

Loyal, stubborn and pushy to a fault, what else could you possibly want out of a muse? And if some come with attitudes and pensions for chasing lizards, so be it. I won’t complain.

Just remember… Pamper the muse and she just might pamper you right back.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe and her warm, fuzzy band-aid