My dog thinks he's a cat. He's 65lbs of pure canine denial and thinks he belongs on your lap. Or in your bed. Every morning, George stealthily waits until Matt hits the ground running at o'dark thirty.The minute he hears the shower taps turn on, he leaps into bed and dives under the covers.
This might be funny if I haven't already been invaded by one or more anklebiters. My kids don't like to sleep alone. They have mastered the art of the "looking insanely cute and needy at 3am" routine that I regularly awaken with one or more princess-pajama clad bodyparts casually draped across my torso. (Where do kids get the talent to inflate their body mass and overtake a bed? How can a 3 year old take up that much bodily space? It defies the law of physics.)
The irony that should have been an Alanis Morrisette lyric is that I used to hate being touched when I slept. Seriously. Before kids and schizo-pooches, I would draw an imaginary line down the bed when it was time to get some shuteye. Like a roadtrip game played in the backseat of a 1970's station wagon- "this here is my space, and only my space. Do not cross that line or I will feed the dog an ice cube from the cooler and have him puke in the only pair of shoes you packed for our 2 week trip." (true story).
Now, I regularly constrict my ever expanding body into the 2cm of space that my daughter leaves me on the edge of the bed and wait for the sun to rise. So my crazy pooch can come join in the fun.