Carll wonders why I sleep where I sleep. Jane too. I’ve heard them talking about it, which is pretty insulting. Only insentient or non-comprehending creatures do humans discuss in their hearing – gerbils, say, or snakes, or Alabamans. Newborns too – “Look at the cute little tot, but why is he so green?” Because I can’t talk human doesn’t mean I can’t understand it. I understand human about as well as Carll understands Italian (hah!). No matter. Maybe earth would be more habitable if humans spoke truly instead of b-s’ing and pussyfooting. (Why “pussyfooting”? Canines ambulate no less delicately.) Imagine a human gathering where everybody blurted their mind. “You look terrible, are you sick?” “How’s your divorce going? Still seeing that trollop?” (not Anthony) “You aren’t half as rich as you boast!” – this last for the Trumps.

We were talking sleeping locations. If they asked me, I’d tell them: I sleep where I feel like. Only that’s an answer that isn’t one, a tautology I think it’s called. As King Lear growls in his grump, “Nothing comes from nothing.” Hence the following Survey of Henry’s Indoor Resting Places: Preliminary Findings.” (Note: Past performance is no guarantee of future results. Sender assumes no responsibility for actions undertaken based on information herein. Nod twice to indicate acceptance of terms before reading further.)

1.     Wire crates. Presently, three – one in the aptly-named Master (or Massah) Bedroom; one downstairs, which I’ve outgrown; and a third in the back seat of Carll’s car, also outgrown. I’m enticed into these cages with irresistible treats, but I don’t mind. With the gate latched, tell me, who’s in and who’s out? Within these confines

… which is saying something.

2.     Liminal loci (doorways especially): The advantage here is obvious. I can keep better track of my inmates. Who’s guarding whom?

3.     Jane and Carll’s bed: By invitation only. Jane, for example, at dawn enjoys a good ear-lick. I like them too.

4.     Carll’s study (six situations – and counting): I’m OK hanging with Carll. It’s an acquired taste and I’ve acquired it. Familiarity breeds content, not contempt, which I know nothing about. Carll fits me like an old shoe. (His odoriferous old shoes in the off-limits closet also gratify.) But entre nous, mon cher, Carll’s a bore, always staring into that gray metal box – or devouring a book (though not in my sense of devour) – or sleeping. He claims to be playing when his fingers flicker, but it sure doesn’t look like it. Playing means bustling, tussling, fetching, not playing dead. His dogged insistence on what he calls his work (why “dogged”?) leaves me way too much time to mosey from the foldable dog-cot (elevated, thus drafty) to cooling bathroom tiles to Carll’s ratty leather recliner which he bought after his first marriage busted up and he was feeling sorry for himself and he never uses but is reluctant to part with for some reason to – let me catch my breath – Carll’s workbed, which he permits when the metal box isn’t open (he likes ear-licks too)  to wedged against his door lintel (liminal again) to the carpet beneath Carll’s workbed to… you get the picture. All this rest makes me restive, antsy (do ants get antsy?), and hilariously gymnastic when Carll finally reaches for his jacket to take me on my walk.

And the moral of this story? You humans, oh!