I hear him outside the door again. A plaintive whining. I'll leave the desk and let him in again, and he'll stalk the room, a true house tiger seeking imaginary prey. If I have the time or the inclination, I'll send him chasing the red dot again, or maybe(more) ball up another half-written rotten rejected page for him to bat around until boredom sets in and sleep beckons. Or maybe it'll be that half-forgotten call of the wild that will lead him to the door again, whining for release into the urban jungle beyond.