"Do you have any choice?"
I looked at him, a couple of ounces of harmless-looking fur that had already cost me my immediate future in the newspaper business.
"I guess not," I said, hoping I could find a way to get rid of him if things didn't work out right.
And so began a strange collaboration, with Trlk perched on my shoulder dictating stories into my ear while I typed them. He had definite ideas about writing and I let him have his way. After all, I didn't know anything about literature.
Sometimes, when he'd get stuck, he'd get down and pace the living room rug. Other times he'd massage his tail, which was as long as he, smoothing it with his tongue and meticulously arranging every hair on it.
"It's lovely, don't you think?" he often asked.
And I'd say, "If you spent as much time working on this story as you do admiring your tail, we'd get something done."
"Sorry," he'd say, hopping on my shoulder again. "Where were we?"
I'd read the last page and we'd be off again.