The intrepid old man

I got home kind of late last night--I had to give a talk, and had gone out for dinner afterward with a couple of my peeps who had kindly come to help pad the ranks of the audience. (And don't you love that term, peeps? So cheerful.)

I didn't want to wake Doug, so I crawled into the guest bed across the hall, where Riley was already sprawled out, taking up most of the space. I wadded myself into a little knot and tried to sleep.

At about midnight, I awoke to hear the noise of galloping hooves--galloping paws, anyway--and then a whoooooosh! as an animal launched itself through the air and landed on the bed with a thunk! that shook the headboard.

It was Boscoe! That crazy old dog. He has not been on the big bed in months--months! But apparently he can still get on the guest bed, I guess because the angle of the approach affords him a long runway for takeoff.

He settled himself across the foot of the bed, and Riley moaned and stretched and took up the middle of the bed, and I ended up repositioning myself horizontally across the head of the bed, where the pillows belong. My feet hung off one side, my head lay at a peculiar angle, I could feel my shoulders cramping up.

I am not particularly well-rested this morning. But the dogs, you'll be happy to know, slept very soundly.