Scritch scritch scritch scritch scritch.
Pause.
Scritch scritch scritch scritch scritch.
THWACKAWACKAWACKAWACK.
Pause.
And then the whine.
It is 1:48 am and I am listening to our dog, Tiny, standing on Vince's side of the bed and nursing an itchy spot behind one ear. She is currently hoping to be magically levitated on to our bed, and I am debating whether or not I want to make that happen. Tiny seems to be selectively arthritic -- she has a bone spur in her back that bothers her when it is convenient or dramatic. She'll run around the house at breakneck speed, jumping over the back of the couch and sliding under Anna's baby gym, but then act like she is climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro when she clambers up on the couch to rest among the cushions. When we used to have a low bed, she'd leap up effortlessly, but since we got the new one she will stand on Vince's side of the bed and look at us pleadingly, asking us to lift her up and spare her back.
I end up bringing her up, and she quietly finds the spot in which she can cause the most discomfort to the bed's existing occupants. Tiny is wonderfully solid. Once she lies down, it takes a lot of effort to get her to move again. Shoving her yields nothing. So when she inevitably positions herself so that her head is burrowed into the small of Vince's back and her butt is warming mine, we humans resign ourselves to a morning of aches and pains. It's worth it. This humble creature just wants to snuggle us so close because she loves us so much and also it is so cold and we are so warm. Her presence is reassuring, and I flip over to curl around her like water around stone.
