I’m thinking of directing my autobiography. A biopic. Memoir. Saga. Sketch. Short. Of my brief life. I see myself curled up under a tree, near death, maybe a weeping willow, and a young woman (younger than Anne), blond perhaps, (thinner than Anne) and Ella walk by on a frigid Thanksgiving morning and discover me. I am wary. Very wary. But weak. I am waiting for my owner to return. I am a skeleton but cannot eat. The woman is aghast at my condition. (She kinda overacts this bit, but it’s her first staring roll and I let it slide. ) The younger and thinner blond rushes home to get the car and returns in a flurry. She has treats. I am lifted onto a fur-covered dog blanket in the backseat of an aging Subaru. It is warm, really warm and cozy and smells like many dogs. I . . . CUT! Do I really have to wear this hat? Can’t a sweater and scarf be an ensemble? My ears are covered up. My expressive ears, my off kilter, uneven cute ears, they are one of my trademarks, and seriously, should be seen at all times, me thinks.
More Ollie and other dog photos may be seen at annechadwickwilliams.com
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