Ask my dogs if they care

Always, always, two opposing things have to go on in my life, paralllellly (I'm supplying extra ls, please delete whichever you think are extra - this is what i am now free to do, after slaving over 100s of manuscripts editing for content as well as spelling, and all, all these years. Now i'm just going to hand out extra letters - and you go figure, for words like commmmittttted and benefffittted and and bizzaarrre and many more.)

So the two opposing things are, that while I am getting interviewd and photographed and called to talk hither and yon, about my book (3 Zakia Mansion, pyaar se usko log 3ZM pukartey hai, etc), at home, the canine contingent is totally unimpressed. Open a paper and show them your pic, and they say - ya, where's our grub. Try to get them out into the yard, out of the way of some cowering interviewer, and the two adolescent curs say under their breath: how many books is it going to take her to write to get her to install a retractable awning to keep this place dry. Wind them up with commercial dog food instead of home-cooked, on a busy day, and one of them vomits accusingly. And not in the yard. Right inside the house; possibly on the yoga mat. The older dog sighs and gives long doleful looks - thoroughly unimpressed by my 5 minutes of fame. When i squeeze in time to take them to the vet (shots, ears, nails, teeth, glands, skin...you think life is about writing books?? grrrr), they make it a point to jump into the car and occupy it all, including the driver's seat. The message is clear - first learn to drive the car from the back seat - then pretend to be a writer, lady.