Copyright (c) 2000 by Michael Finley

My desktop machine, which I have named Ralph, sits chained to my workstation wall all day, like a big white guard dog. When I enter my office in the morning, I know it will be ready to get to work. Poor creature, pinned to that tiny patch of real estate all its life -- it's a great, eager, everyday beast, and I take care to lavish attention on it. You don’t want something that powerful, that volatile, going surly on you.

With the laptop, though, it's a different story. It is black, and smooth, and very light. I like the way it feels in my hands. I can throw it in the air and catch two corners on the way down. It is lithe and twitchy and resourceful and independent, like a cat. I call it Chloe.

It goes where it wants to, when it wants to. And when it doesn't want to go anywhere, it folds itself spare and clean in an angular coil.

The dog is a work dog, an animal domesticated for repetitive tasks. The cat, I associate with wandering, and play, footloose and unleashed.

The dog is always in the way, always picking up dirt and crumbs and coffee spills. Get off the couch with those feet! You say. Whereas the cat is immaculate in its chosen space.

What is nice is how it fits. Across my knees. In bed beside me. If I want I can sit with it in a rocking chair, careful not to rock on the cable.

Nimble and light, it is surprisingly tough. Once it slid from a kitchen chair and before I could grab it, it fell to the floor, and landed squarely on a terrycloth dishtowel on the floor. It landed on its feet.

Another time I was carrying it in the case, and a bicyclist on the sidewalk veered into us and gave it a smack. But it booted up again without a problem. I wondered how many lives it had.

Sometimes I don’t see it for a week at a time. I think I will find it in the case that came with it. But it can be anywhere. On a bookshelf. In back of the closet. Sitting in a sunbeam by a cold cup of tea.

It can sit perfectly still for hours, intent on its mouse, to see who moves first. It's an ancient game.

If I turn it on, and step away, it shuts down by itself and needs to be reawakened. If I leave it on but unplugged, it slips off into sleep again.

It reminds me it is there in subtle ways. I'll be working and thinking, and suddenly I feel the cord rubbing against my leg. Or its battery will be low and I will hear its plaintive beep and look up.

When my wife gets into bed with me, she asks, Did you put the laptop away?

Because it is beautiful, it helps me make friends. I'll be at an airport gate, feeling dazed from travel, and another traveler will sit beside me and ask about its lineage. We sit, both looking at the screen, admiring the speed and compactness. Words are unnecessary.

I have friends with regular jobs who sit all day at their desktop units. They love their trusty dogs, and I can’t blame them. I like Ralph.

When I tell them I can go anywhere with Chloe, even down to the river to jot some notes, they poke fun. What can you with that little thing? they ask. It's so small, so self-involved, a little smug even.

They don’t understand the pleasure of sitting in the bright air, far from clocks, alert to ideas, and my clever friend purring in my hands.