Winter Sleeps

Maximize comfortable slumber.

CORRECTION: A previous version of this story inaccurately referred to Peggy’s “back legs.” Peggy is, of course a tripod. Some Dogs regrets the error.

Hi there. Thanks for stopping by. If you are new here then let me introduce you to Peggy and Steve. You’ve now met the two most important dogs I know. Today we’ll talk very briefly about two dogs. Let’s all take a deep breath and direct our focus on some dogs for a moment.

When the temperature dips below 40 degrees Peggy and Steve spend their nights on the bed. Each has a specific sleep strategy, designed to maximize comfortable slumber.

Ever the individualist, Peggy stakes out a spot on the far right corner, away from prying limbs. She prefers to lie diagonally, a posture that is rarely tolerated. As a compromise, she begins the night with her face hanging gently off the end of the bed only to switch direction three to five times before dawn. For roughly 15 minutes, she’ll press her body against a cohabitant’s leg to absorb any excess warmth. If cuddled, she will endure the gesture for roughly the length of a Top 40 song and then move away. All movements are conducted with loud, dramatic sighs.

Steve, on the other hand, optimizes for warmth. This means maximizing the amount of cuddle surface area. Each point of contact secures more coziness and reassures him that the cohabitants are still slumbering beside him. Lithe and nimble, he spends his evening contorting into various, tortured shapes. It is not uncommon to wake in the night and find his four paws pointed rigidly in the air as he snores faintly on his back. Steve’s movements are less frequent than Peggy’s and every night begins exactly the same way — with his chin positioned tenderly on the ankle of the cohabitant on the left side of the bed. Chin placement, as we’ve learned, is paramount.

Even on cold nights, the window is left open a crack so that some of the frigid dry air fills the room, leaving the cohabitants bundled and buffeted from the elements under a thick comforter. Should an easterly wind pick up from off the water, Peggy will stir. First, she opens her eyes, almost reluctantly. Next, she slowly raises her nose skyward, in order to take in the rich textures of the breeze and assess the danger (there is none). If the wind sustains, she will sit up and take her watch, which is accompanied by a soft, steady pant. Occasionally a cohabitant will wake and, having been caught keeping guard, she will demur and pretend to sleep again. But make no mistake, Peggy is vigilant.

Steve, for his part, is inert. Only 40 pounds and bird-like in frame, Steve’s weight seems to triple in the dead of night. One can barely perceive the rise and fall of his chest and his breath is nearly silent. And yet his fur-bound self is formidable between 10 P.M. and dawn. Fortunately, Steve is a pliable fellow. A cohabitant can slide a well-placed foot underneath his body and move the dead weight in a desired direction. Each move elicits a deep, mournful groan — like a teenager being told to get up well after noon. If moved too far from a cohabitant, he will quietly crawl back until he’s achieved direct contact. This, too, will provoke a tiny, satisfied grunt.

There comes a moment in the dead of night when Peggy decides to make her rounds. She rises off the bed and quietly slides her front paws off. Her back leg follows without much noise. She proceeds to take a lap around the bed, her paws clacking horribly on the hardwood. Once she’s walked the perimeter, she thuds on the left side of the bed, rousing the cohabitants, who implore her to rejoin the mattress-bound pile. Reluctantly, she obliges, now satisfied that the room is secure.

The pair begin to slough off sleep and a pervasive restlessness creeps in around 6 A.M., as both Peggy and Steve realize breakfast is nigh. Knowing better than to wake the cohabitants, they enter a liminal state between sleep and consciousness. Their brains and ears grow attuned to every movement. Having been burned before, they know to distinguish a pillow clutch or rustle from an awakening. They remain quiet and unmoving until the sound of an alarm — the dulcet tone that heralds a feeding. Occasionally, a cohabitant will arise before the dulcet tone, in which case Peggy and Steve remain calm, but vigilant. In this liminal state, there are many false alarms — each one an unfathomable tragedy for the pair.

But one indicator remains supreme: When the cohabitant reaches for the glowing glass rectangle it is clear they’ve joined the realm of the conscious. It is the signal that the morning has started in earnest. It is time to meet the day. Which means it is time to eat.