I am not a fan of the pressure. I work my brains out trying not to get myself in a pressureful (to use my niece's made-up word) corner, but every once in a while things build up faster than I can get through them (that's the way it is in publishing), and I'm up against it. And guess what: I write under pressure, and then stand back and marvel at how quickly I get it done. And then the next day I am convinced once again that I just can't work under pressure.
This is Pete. We call him "the brainless wonder" because it's a wonder he can function at all with as little brainpower as he apparently has. What he lacks in smarts he makes up for in jowls and hair.
Pete hates pressure too, only in his case, it's the barometric kind. He senses a drop in atmospheric pressure and begins the freak-out process because he knows there's thunder coming. Then we have the requisite pacing, panting, and drooling. A few weeks ago I heard him outside my bedroom door at 1:30 a.m. in the middle of a meltdown, so I got my bathrobe on, opened the door, and slid through a puddle of dog slobber. I may or may not have said some less-than-kind things to my panic-stricken dog and shooed him back to his crate to ride out the storm. Remember the book, Marly & Me? That's Pete.
Pete in sun-shiny high pressure:
Pete in there's-a-storm-a-comin' low pressure:
Maybe I should deal with my pressure like he deals with his.
Be thankful ~