My muse is like a pussycat; not at all like a puppy. My wife introduced me to domesticated cats (note that domestication remains incomplete in cats). Our family, also, has a miniature dachshund named Oliver. Oliver runs ands greets everyone immediately. For him, life is right now. Whether one wants his attention, right now, is irrelevant to Oliver. He is in your face, admittedly with benevolent love, but there is no ignoring him and his tongue.
I wish my muse was like a puppy. My muse is like my cat (name: Darwin). He has been with us since he was a tiny kitten. He has never been outdoors and has known nothing but safety. I am his favorite person but, his attitude, everyday, is that of an emotional recluse. The circumstance of our engagement, each time, requires seduction exercises from me. But this seduction must be passive and with much patience. The room must be quiet and with a small number of witnesses. He doesn’t like for other people to watch us exchange our affections. Once enticed onto my lap, he wants my undivided attention. He walks across my laptop and demands the petting ritual. Under these carefully orchestrated circumstances and with stroking in critical anatomical sites, he purrs and purrs.
My muse is like my cat.