I sneak a peak at the clock. 2:30 am. Early, even for me.
I’m teetering inches from the edge of the bed. Drifting in and out of consciousness.
I can hear his breathing. It’s too hot for him to sleep at our feet, under the covers, a winter pastime. So, he’s up on the pillows. This was cute as a puppy. Beastly now at 67 lbs. And he’s a leaner. On your legs. On your back. On whatever is in the way. But lean he must.
He dreams. He’s running. His paws and legs kicking. Faster. Faster. Faster. A bear pawing a tree, roughly ripping slabs of bark and digging his claws into its sinews. Or me.
Enough. Bleary eyed I grab my pillow and get up. He’s watching me warily and emits a low growl. He remembers our weak kneed attempts at re-training to have him sleep on the floor. That ended badly. For us.
I trudge up to the attic.
I toss. I turn. I toss. I turn. 3:00 am. Hopeless. I can’t settle. Doesn’t feel right.
I waddle back downstairs. Linus with his pillow and blanky in tow.
I crawl back into bed. He turns. Licks my face. Rolls over. And leans against my back.
I gently lean back into him.
Damn dog.
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