But . . . (busted) . . .
In the last several weeks, I've been marching down the hallway to wake Little and finding this:
|I just walked in and looked at him and said, "busted" . . . look how guilty he looks, ears down, head hanging. |
I laughed out loud.
Hmm. I've not been able to figure out what's really going on at night. Moose sleeps at the foot of our bed. I'd like to think that when Mimi comes in, her activity wakes him and he goes to find a warmer spot cuddled into her bed. But, I'm afraid that he's been sneaking down the hall between 4:30 and 5:30, waking her up, and evicting her from her own bed so that he can get in. Darn dog.
The last few nights, I've made an effort to wake up when she comes in just long enough to figure out where the dog is. And . . . . Mimi's the guilty one. She's waking at first light. Her window faces that way, and she has bright white blinds that fail to keep even a sliver of morning light out. She wakes up and comes my way. With her commotion . . . because she comes in dragging at least one blanket and this morning, rolling a giant ball with her . . . plus, she has a habit of dragging her hand along the spindles of the banister, so you can head a thump-thump-thump-thump as she walks by, Moose wakes up. He actually tip-toes out of my room and into hers. This morning, I actually saw him climb up into her bed. One. Paw. At. A. Time. As gently and quietly as 150 pounds of pooch can accomplish . . . .