Every morning, Harry gives me that loving, longing, eager look and works his tail like an amazing spiral windmill. He perks his ears, waiting for me to say “Let’s go!”
I’d love to have him go to work for me. I would stay home and read and write and walk and dream and nap. But the boy won’t even learn how to sort cells in Excel. I tell him he needs to get these rudimentary, tedious tasks under his big nose if he is going to replace me (any monkey could do it), but he has no perseverance and he resigns himself to the front window, gently nudging one of his toys with his teeth.
As I walk out the door each day, I tell him, “Work on your Excel, Harry; it’s the only thing I know that you don’t. I don’t think he’s with me on this. He doesn’t enjoy earning money.