I sit down on the couch and pull my laptop into my lap.
I used to sit in the middle, so a dog could lay on each side. But then the elliptical looks like it’s growing out of my head when I’m on Zoom, so I tend towards the end of the couch now.
“Who’s going to sit by me?”
Molly cares far more about this and is the first one to the couch. She aims for the center and heaves her body up. Her bad elbow is a hindrance, but she’s strong.
Ellie operates in a different gear entirely, and she has no decorum about selecting the right amount of space for herself. She doesn’t think first, she just acts. As Molly is halfway up on the couch, she streaks in and effortlessly lifts her body to squeeze between us.
“Not fast enough, Molly, sorry,” is what I say, but they could have been Ellie’s words.
Ellie sits and looks at me expectantly. I look past her to admire Molly’s sweet face, then back to my laptop to get started.
Before I’ve even logged into Zoom, Ellie’s leapt off the couch and onto the easy chair across the room. She looks at Molly and I, now spread out on either end of the couch since she thwarted our easy, planned cuddles. Ellie’s seated at attention. Her ears perk up and she emits a low “errr-awwwrr.” Is she trying to communicate disappointment or demand? I’m not sure. Perhaps she wishes it were breakfast time. It’s not.
But before I can respond, Ellie’s distracted herself with an itch behind her ear. She contorts her legs and talks to herself, an even quieter “errr-ooo-ugh.” Then wraps her front paws around her face and flips mostly upside down.
Molly gives me a look of bemused judgement, then settles her upper body onto her tail to make a tight, cozy ball. Pretty soon, Ellie has settled into a similar position, although her extra-long tail is wrapped around the outside of her face like decorative trim.
In the end, nobody is sitting next to me, but we are arranged in a triangle of the three cozy corners of our living room, and I feel as warm as winter snuggles.
