I'm sitting upstairs at my desk, listening to Ky barking his head off (what a visual) at the apartment door. Casey had raced up the stairs and had his head poking through the cat door. He has a strong need to be acknowledged by me first thing every morning.
Right now I can hear him playing downstairs in my parents' living room. He has this funny step-clump stride that comes from the brace hitting the floor. The only time he is silent is when the brace is off. I can hear him pounce on his toys, the crash of the bookcase when he flings his stuffed bear into it and the step-clump bounce move that he does when he's playing ball.
My dad claims he likes to balance his earth-shaped Planet Dog ball on top of the Pilates ball. I've never seen it myself but nothing would surprise me where Casey is concerned.
I mention all this because it's an interesting back drop of sound while I work on the first draft of his story. Unlike my other work, this one is ongoing. Even when I'm not at the computer recording Casey's progress we're living the book. It's happening right now as I type. Sometimes I have to stop writing and go experience it.
When I listen to him play, or watch him leap across the room onto Ky or hear the distinct step-clump on the wooden stairs outside my door I'm reminded that Casey's story isn't just about the medical. It's about what it means to live with him. Day in, day out, through frustration and triumph, he's a blur of energy and exuberance. All he cares about is playing with his pack, getting his belly rubbed or leaning on his people. Figuratively and literally.
Step-clump. Step-clump. Step-clumpstep-clumpstep-clump. This is the soundtrack for his book.