Awakened from a sound sleep, I hear the scritch-scratching of dog toenails on the floor, then on the bedroom door.
I wait. The scritch-scratching moves away from the door and down the hall. I settle in, turn over, pull the duvet up to my chin.
Scritch-scratching back to the door again. I wait. Toenails on the door. I get up, put on my robe, go to the door. It's Bruiser.
He looks up at me. He's poised to come in and take his rightful place upon the bed, between us, where as a result, if history proves to be consistent, I will not be able to go back to sleep because of (a) not enough covers, and (b) he will be sleeping on my half.
Me: Hi Bruiser. C'mon.
|Bruiser: I'm voting for yours truly.|
I let him out. He takes his little tour around the yard and before long is back at the door. I let him in. We walk back down the hall and go into the bedroom.
Me: Wait, Bruiser. Wait.
Before I have even rounded the bed, he is up. Of course he is. The covers: askew. My side of the bed: dog-occupied.
Alas. To rectify this situation would require a stern, commanding voice from me, which would disturb the historian, who has slept soundly through all of this--all of the scritch-scratching, the ins and outs, all that noisy scheming on my part.
Thus it is now me, on the couch.