Since my last post I have been inundated by canine enquiries as to how I managed to inveigle myself onto the family bed (albeit having to cope with the trauma of the heated duvet). Well, reader, I started with an advantage because our’s is a bungalow with all the bedrooms on the ground. Only a loft conversion housing the living quarters is upstairs so that made a mockery of the ‘no upstairs rule’. For goodness sake, my bowl resided in the kitchen upstairs, the telly, which I snore in front of every night, was upstairs, the sofa which so ably lulled me into snoring was upstairs.
So upstairs I lived, leaving the main bedroom vulnerable as they could hardly introduce a ‘no downstairs’ rule when I had to be let out each night to have my pre-sleep barking session. I ably exploited this loophole by spending entire nights (I must emphasise the word entire) laying siege to my quarry. I whined, I wheedled, I mewed like a kitten, I trembled every time the door opened and I was told to shut up. Eventually the Male resolve crumbled (his was the last to go, the Female was ready to give in after about five minutes) and I got my way.
End of story you might think. But no, another obstacle materialised. An old brushed cotton sheet with a tear in it was thrown across the brocade duvet cover as my paws were thought to introduce unnecessary garden elements onto the pristine aqueousness of the cover. This I managed to bypass by insouciantly plonking myself on the one bit of the bed not covered by the brushed cotton which was the Male’s pillow. Although regularly ejected from said foothold, sleep overtakes us all, and when this happened the sheet miraculously slid down and I could feel the silky brocade wrap luxuriously round my perfectly toned curves. Bliss zzzz.
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