Sleeping at the Edge

Everyone who sleeps with a pet knows it will mysteriously gravitate toward the center of the bed during the night . OK, that's a given. Pets are master skoochiers (skoo-chee-er: one who skooches, inch by inch, into your space.) But what I don't understand is how one double bed+one 7-pound dog=no room for me. How does that happen?


When I got Scruffdog last month, he was so busy recovering from his terrible encounter with a big dog--and so doped up--that he didn't move at all during the night. "At last!" I thought. "I've found the perfect dog!" Oh, but but nay. He was just a very sick little dog. He's getting better, bit by bit. And more dog-like. It warms my heart to see him play with his squeaky toy. I love that his appetite is good. But when it comes to my bed, he's messing with the Alpha Female!

OK, I'm going in there right now to show him who's boss. I'm going. I'm determined. Oh, but just look at that little head hidden among the covers! Awwww, isn't that the cutest thing? Maybe I'll just skoochie him over a little, and try not to wake him...

...and that's how it works. All the resolve in the world melts away when faced with an adorable dog face (and they're all adorable). [Sigh.] I guess I'm destined to sleep at the edge of the bed for the rest of this dog's natural life!

Angel Dog

Yes, I know this picture is ridiculously cute. That's why it's here. I haven't felt very amusing lately, and this is my way of making it up to you.

Like the rest of us, Scruffdog has had a tough time of it since November. He's wearing this attractive Victorian collar because the groin wound he sustained (when attacked by a big dog) didn't heal. Then he tore it open last week. The vet cleaned it all out, stitched him up, and sent us home with an array of pills that would do a senior citizen proud. It seems to be healing nicely, but when I feel sorry for him and remove the annoying appendage, he instantly tries to chew the stitches off. The only wayI can be sure collarless Scruffdog isn't chewing himself is to hold him. I'm typing with one hand, and my arms are getting numb. But I'm nice and toasty; it is amazing how warm a 7-lb. dog stuffed in your vest can keep you!

He's a plucky little survivor, a great inspiration for an unemployed and soon-to-be-single Boomer. He thinks the sun rises and sets on me--who wouldn't be cheered up by such devotion? As I care for him, his slow healing reminds me that wounds don't stay raw forever. And that sometimes we find divine hope in the unlikeliest places.