The dog pictured below is responsible for feasting on baby ideas. Have you seen him?

I’ve been fiercely defending ideas against the likes of him since the 5th grade, when a classmate’s science fair exhibit showed how music affects the growth of petunias.

The first group of petunias listened to rock music.
The second group listened to classical music.
And the third group listened to nothing at all.

The petunias that listened to rock music paid the price. They looked like deformed ear lobes.

Those that flourished were the petunias with silence.

This was a shocker. Petunias can tell the difference between classical and rock. Petunias can hear. How? Why? Do they understand me right now?

I spent the rest of 5th grade in Bach seclusion, convinced any other type of music would stunt my growth, but unwilling to embrace absolute silence. Classical music was my idea of a compromise with nature.

Then I met Piper. The embodiment of rock music and destruction.

He doesn’t grow baby petunias—he eats them. Wham! Pow! Mine!

Yoga means nothing to him, except for downward dog, which signifies “Come! Drop upon my head this ratty tennis ball you found. This is urgently required!”

Tramping on the trampoline is one thing he seems to innately get. He’s not quite as skilled as this guy, but all he needs is a larger trampoline and free backyard access. He could go pro.

Not long ago, I realized Piper lives within me. And so do those science fair petunias.

My writing—whether for myself or for clients—is a bed of petunias.

My emails and marketing activities are Piper.

When I went to SXSW last week, Piper was all about it. He danced right over those petunias. He’s a natural networker. Probably from all that time he put in at the dog park. He loved bumping noses with people like Jacquelyn, Eileen, Tony, Olivia, Jason, Jodi, Nathalie, Colleen, Jean, Steve, Nathan, Taylor, Karl, Pace, Kyeli, Johnny, Hugh, Chris G. #1, Chris G. #2, Naomi, Megan, Martin, Brian, Reese, Liz, Melle, Jeff, Cath, Tzaddi, Deb, Sonia, Andrew, Carl, and Charlie.

Stomp stomp stomp. He devoured the petunias, helped himself to some cupcakes, and left crumbs and stems everywhere. It’s okay. I can grow more petunias.

Piper isn’t to be blamed for crunching on petunias. That’s just what he likes to do. Destruction is its own kind of creation. Ideally, he is permitted outside for brief periods of time, under strict supervision.

And then he is brought back inside. And the petunias are allowed a bit of sun and spaciousness and quiet.

Before I knew Piper was running half my business, I was trying to do two jobs with one brain.

It was tough trying to switch back and forth between Piper and petunias, Piper and petunias, all day long.

Piper gets so excited he can’t help himself. He sees baby ideas on the other side of the fence, he jumps the fence, and he eats them all.

It helps me to think of my day as feeding Piper versus feeding the petunias.

Because I can’t feed them both at the same time.

And that is why I try to get creative work done on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays—”petunia days”—while limiting client phone calls to Tuesdays and Thursdays—the designated “Piper free-for-all days.”

I’ve been doing this for a few months now, and I absolutely love it. The petunias are healthy and happy. Piper is healthy and happy.

That’s also why I don’t check email constantly. Maybe five times a day. Which, for me, is quite low. As low as I think I can get right now. It’s admittedly less than Gwen’s and Marissa’s once a day, but I’ll leave that as a goal.

Piper has a lot of energy. He’d be miserable just sitting around all day long.

But make no mistake, he is not in charge here.

And this is primarily a petunia shop. A petunia shop that happens to be guarded by a very fierce yet fuzzy dog.

Yes, we eat petunias here sometimes. It happens.

But mostly, we feed them. And I try to inspire my clients to feed their petunias, too.

Petunias need space, which isn’t always so interesting. Especially to a dog. But that’s what they need. I don’t make up the rules.

This is why I love the idea of Eileen Corrigan’s excellent Sailboat Kit, wherein you build a metaphorical container to structure your time. This weekend, I will create something like this for my petunia idea garden. Something that lets Piper have a bit of room to run about in, too.

Here are a few things that feed petunias for me:

(Activities that make me maximally creative, and therefore productive later.)

• Making up songs about dogs, for my dog opera
• Laminating pieces of paper so everything looks official, and waterproof
• Dancing like a dinosaur
• Drumming along with rap music
• Buying pens in a stationery store
• Playing intense tennis matches where we forget to keep score, but where every play has the potential to irreversibly change the course of history
• Drinking Cytomax out of a chalice after finishing Jillian Michaels’ 30-Day Shred, Level 3 (does this make it mead?)
• Assembling papercraft rocketships or puppets

You will no doubt have your own list.

Today’s Key Takeaway: The secret recipe to powering through any creative project is making sure you don’t let Piper trample the petunias. Keep them separated—preferably by a 15-minute nap in the sun.