Aug 7, 2017 3 min read

I awoke yesterday morning remembering solidly why I don’t allow the dog to sleep in our bed very often. He was spread out across the entire bottom third of the bed, while I was curled into an uncomfortable and unflattering position.

The night prior, I had been feeling a little off, and in that moment of weakness, had called him up onto the comforter. Knowing how rare an invitation it is, he lay curled into as little a ball as a 90-pound Rottweiler can become. He looked back and forth to my husband and me – almost sadly – for confirmation of being allowed where he was, and I, who was also a bit melancholy, gave it repeatedly.

But sometime in the night, his uncertainty slipped away, and he relaxed. As he did, it seems that he uncurled himself and melted into the giant puppy puddle I found yesterday morning.

He didn’t even wake as I extracted myself from the space I had been allotted, and only gave a light snore when I stepped out of bed. I, on the other hand, stretched, creaked and cracked, and otherwise divulged my presence without saying a word. Despite my stiffness, I really didn’t want to wake him from such an obvious state of contentment.

Instead, I went downstairs to start my coffee. As I hit the first floor, I was immediately bombarded by meowing from some distant area of the house. It seemed to follow me around as I went about my morning routine. Eventually, it dawned on me that a cat must be locked in the basement.

I went to the basement door and opened it. Like a rocket, my long-haired calico shot from the darkness below and into the kitchen. Her meowing grew louder as she rubbed against my ankles, as she, too, seemed to need reassurance of her place in my life.

I took a cup of coffee to the computer desk and sat down. She followed me, standing on her hind legs to be better able to thrust her head into my lap. I petted her for a few seconds, telling her she was silly for going to the basement again after the last time she spent a lonely night down there.

She responded by jumping into my lap and meowing even louder. As I began to try to work on the computer, she put her paws onto the keyboard, holding down the space bar and preventing any other keys from functioning. Finally, I had to put her onto the floor. She lay there, licking my feet and purring with joy about no longer being alone.

I completed my task and dressed for work. As usual, I was running late. As I left the house, I looked around the yard for Roger, the turkey who makes our menagerie complete. He was standing near the lilac bush, waiting for his morning neck rub. He stretches that long neck up as high as he can, and waits for us to rub him up and down on either side.

Of course, I obliged; it wasn’t his fault I was late. (I might be able to make a case for the dog and the cat’s contributions, but not his.)

As I pulled down the driveway, I couldn’t help but laugh. The thought crossed my mind that I’d be doing all the same things – in reverse, of course – when I returned from work that evening.

What a blessed life.

Laura Zoeller can be reached at zoeller5@verizon.net.