I’ve been writing and workshopping a story about a group of people living on a block of rowhomes and the glimpses they get of each other in passing. To the right you’ll find an excerpt. Who wouldn’t want a dog like this?
Earlier this morning, I came home from a jaunt outside to find my own dog clearly wanting a walk. It’s icy and raining here. My coat and shoes were off. Then I took a look at what he’d brought me immediately after sensing this thing might not go his way. It was a typed of piece paper. The final line of the page?
I haven’t worked on that story in a while. I couldn’t even tell you where the manuscript was if I needed to. I’ not saying (I’m just saying.) He got the walk, of course. He earned it.
Another of his literary adventures, here.
(Update: The excerpted piece is collected in What Other People Heard When I Taught Myself to Speak.)
Chris Cocca 
Your own dog, eh? Not the dog that belongs to the guy who lives in a rowhome and writes?
The guy who lives in the rowhome and writes is 60 and teaches at a fictional college in a fictionalized city in a fictionalized corner of Pennsylvania. His dog isn’t even as smart as my dog.