Likely not his biggest, but one of the most vocal complaints Sam has had about me is that I hog the bed. Some time between tucking in securely on "my side" and waking up the next morning, I apparently thrash about and trespass repeatedly beyond the 'armistice line.' Sometimes, I remember doing so, but often not. I do, however, vaguely recall a few occasions where I've hit him in the face, so I guess he has a right to complain.
Lately, though, I'm the one complaining about poor bed etiquette, and my ire is directed toward the third member of our little family: our oversized and oversensitive pup who sleeps perpendicular to our parallel bodies. Not content with being allowed in the bed at all, a privilege granted to him only a few months ago, he finds it necessary to lay flat with all four of his legs fully extended so that he somehow makes contact with both of our bodies.
But the problem I have with Grr's sleeping habits only begins with the space he demands. I would not find him nearly as intrusive if he would only budge when I move. Instead, I am locked into the same position for as long as he has his head resting against my leg. Should I decide to turn over, or move a leg, I risk the wrath of his vicious-sounding growl and a couple of high-pitched barks. He would get up, circle the same, warm spot he just left, and throw himself back down on the bed in a huff, head back against my leg, stretched out as if neither Sam nor I exist.
Even the most comfortable position becomes a prison if you can not leave it without consequence.
I got the idea the other day to buy Grr a little doggy bed and just set it on the bedroom floor next to us. Lord knows we cannot make him sleep in it (a lesson learned from the crating fiasco we experienced when we first brought him home) or prevent him from coming into our bed with us, so I thought the best way to go about this is to let him decide that the doggy bed will be more comfortable (for all of us, actually), where he won't be awakened by us moving and can stretch out as far as his limbs will go.
Last night, I nonchalantly threw his bed at the foot of ours, which he had eagerly already jumped into. I sat next to him, rubbed his head and kissed him on the chin like I do every night, and laid down. And waited. He looked at the bed then went back to chewing on his bone with no more movement than that.
Halfway through the night, I felt him stand up, stretch, and slink off of our bed, then plop himself down on his own. I stretched out a little, testing the freedom I now had to move about in any which way I wanted. Admittedly, it felt pretty great.
As I drifted off in my new, more liberated position, I had a thought: what if he stops sleeping with us altogether? He already no longer likes it when I pick him up, and where he used to give me little kisses when I got close to his face, he now turns away and pretends that I had never approached him at all. Was I ready to let him sleep on his own and, in essence, grow up from the puppy I still think of him as and into a headstrong adult with wishes of his own? The inevitable answer, that it wasn't really up to me, made me just a bit sad right before I fell back asleep.
I woke up after completely missing my alarm by about two hours, and there he was, back on our bed and curled up in a ball by my ankle. When I reached over to grab my glasses, I accidentally nudged him in the tail gently with my foot. He growled and huffed like I had just irreparably insulted him, and I surprised myself with how glad I was to hear it.
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