Don't Kick The Puppy

I thought about writing a detailed account of how we came to spend Thanksgiving at the ancestral Hopkins Manor of Orangevale, California. But that story's been told. So on to more important things.

Our dog sleeps with us; always has. She used to do it on the sneak, waiting until she thought we were safely asleep before jumping into bed as stealthily as possible. Now she's brazen; our current bed is too high for her to jump onto, so she'll paw and cry at me until I lift her up into the bed.

On arrival, she comes up to the head of the bed and lies between us. We spend a few minutes lavishing completely undeserved attention on her before banishing her to the foot of the bed for the rest of the night.

During this time, she likes to lean against one of our stomachs. (Sitting up on your own is apparently a lot of work when you're a dog.) But the other day something went horibly awry. She got up in the bed, came up between us, and had just gotten comfortable against Sarah when the strangest thing happened: her mama's stomach kicked her!

I know, I know, it loses a lot in the transcription. But it was pretty funny to see the poor confused beagle look on her face. The little one packs quite a wallop, when she wants to.