It seems strange that we lie here together, wrapped in blankets and sound,
me reading, you dozing,
watching me with those patient brown eyes half-sleepy half-adoring.
Your head is resting on my hip,
your paws jutting into my legs as you insist on taking up two-thirds of the sofa,
lying along side me.
You have inspected the book I'm reading,
decided that it's not worth chewing, as you prefer textbooks or schoolbooks or secondhand romance novels.
Either that, or you approve of Neil Gaiman (but don't like a-level drama texts).
As I type, you've rested your head on my legs, causing pins and needles to invade my feet,
but move when prodded, groaning and sighing as though I've asked you to perform some impossible feat.
It seems strange that we've been together for nearly nine months now,
at once the time has gone quickly, but I can't imagine not having you at my side, underfoot, stealing my clothes or waking me in the middle of the night by kicking me in the face as you did last night.
You're my good dog.