Confession: I Love a Bad Dog part II

His eyelids are heavy, his ears droopy. He looks forlorn. Oh, why won’t these people go to bed? Why must a dog keep guard over this family of five? I want to sleep. He lies on a blanket on the couch and waits patiently for each of us, in turn, to hit the hay. He must ensure that we are all safely in bed before he can finally find rest. I, the last to seek my pillow, pat him on the head and say, “Okay, Jack. You can go to bed now.”

He looks relieved, but he still can’t decide with whom to bed down. All night long, he wanders from room to room, pawing back the blankets, crawling all the way under, and curling up next to each warm body for a few hours of sleep. He’s been pushing his hot, furry self against my legs until I am situated precariously near the edge of our California king. Finally, he becomes tired of me and crawls out from under the covers. He sits by the closed door and whimpers. I drag my exhausted body out of bed to let him out, thinking he might need to go outside. I open the door and wait for him to exit. I feel around for him in the dark. Not finding him, I wonder how he managed to streak past me so quickly and with such stealth. Then I turn back to my warm, cozy bed, eager to close my eyes once more. And there he is, his curly little tail wagging in the moonlight. The evil beast has tricked me into relinquishing my cherished spot in the bed to his long legs and pushy paws. I endeavor to nudge him over, but he does not budge, and I swear he grins at me, a malevolent, I win again, grin Well, he has the bed, and he has the daddy, and the mommy has the couch. I yank my pillow from the bed, scowling at him, and head for the living room. Jack is a bad dog, but I love him. Is there something wrong with me?

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