Some nights when I'm not sleeping too deeply, I am aware of Bartlett lying under the covers, snuggled up against my body. Forget the Sandman; that is a dream.
But not every night. She's also faithful to Cranky, and he gets the warm dog cuddles about half the time. (More than half, actually; I'm just trying to make myself feel good about what I do get. Sniff, sniff.)
It hasn't been terrifyingly cold lately, and the skies have been clear, so dog cuddling has been just a pleasure, not a necessity. Well, it looks like winter may be back upon us. There's a sour, poisonous sky, not raining, but bellowing "Just you wait!"
So the urge for the next couple of whiles is to hunker down, to burrow in, to cover ourselves with leaves. Humph. And to cook cold-weather soups on Big Bertha, the new stovetop.
If I'm not back for a few days...
Silly me. I'm always not back for a few days.