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it was just a good old-fashioned back-breaking round-faced shovel.
    Since BeauBeau was Betsy’s dog she was responsible for his deranged behavior. But she didn’t want to fill in the holes he dug so she was paying me a nickel for each holefilled. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it was steady work. BeauBeau and I were a team. All day he’d dig ’em, and when I returned from school I’d fill ’em. It was the kind of assembly-line work that Mr. Ploof had suggested.
    One of the main differences I could find between myself and BeauBeau was that after he finished a hole he was so excited he ran about ten circles around the house. He barked and announced to all the other dogs in the neighborhood, “Hey, I dug a hole. Look at me. I dug a hole. I’m great. Hey! Come see the hole I dug.” Then after he calmed down he’d dig another hole right next to the old hole. On the other hand, once I filled in a hole I’d just add one more nickel to the total, take a self-pitying deep breath, and start filling in another. I had nothing to cheer about, and that is what tipped me off that something was wrong. If I was so dumb, then why was I so unhappy? It was because the tests were wrong. If I was as dumb as they said, then I’d be like BeauBeau. Each time I’d fill in a hole I’d run around the house, waving my shovel overhead and shouting with mindless joy. But filling holes was boring, dumb, brainless work and it was a waste of my time. I didn’t need to be a genius to know that.
    I threw down my shovel, dropped onto one knee, and looked up into the air with my eyes closed. “Come on, muse,” I whispered, “I need you now more than ever. Give me some novel-writing inspiration. I’m ready. I’m waiting. And I’m willing.”
    I bowed my head and waited for fresh words to flood my brain. But it was a repeat of what I’d heard before.
Idiot. Moron. What makes you think you can write a novel?
I quickly hopped up and walked off the sting of those words. With each step I was beginning to smarten up. This muse business can’t be right, I thought, as I paced back and forth. Only an idiot like me would believe that a muse might come down from the sky and whisper brilliant words into my ear.
    I looked at BeauBeau. He was in a hole digging as if he had found a dinosaur bone. He may have had a dog-sized brain but he was smart enough to know exactly what he liked to do. He wasn’t waiting for a dog muse to tell him to dig holes.
    I didn’t have to be real bright to know that if I wanted to accomplish anything I shouldn’t magically expect it to just happen. Waiting for a muse was like begging for a handout, or looking for a free ride. Writing was probably nothing more than plain old hard work. And that’s why more people didn’t write. They took the easy way out and dug holes.
    â€œBeauBeau, you’re too dumb to know it but you’re a genius. Now, hurry up and dig,” I said, spurring him on. “A few more nickels and we can go to the public library for a good book on writing, and a Slim Jim.”
    The promise of a Slim Jim really got him going, and in ten minutes he had a huge hole so long and wide he could turn around in it without hitting the sides.
    â€œGood dog,” I cheered. “You just made me another nickel. In fact, that is a two-nickel double-thick Slim Jim crater.”
    He jumped out of the hole and was thrilled. He ran around me barking wildly, throwing his head back and yapping with abandon. The pre-Slim Jim saliva ran down the sides of his mouth. He stood up and pranced around his hole on his hind legs with his front paws paddling the air.
    â€œGo, BeauBeau, go,” I shouted. “Do that hole-diggin’ dance.”
    He barked, then tore off running around the house, and with each circle he picked up speed like a tornado.
    â€œFaster,” I hollered and waved him forward. “Faster.”