We have two dogs, and about six dog beds in this house. What can I say? They like to lie in the same room as the monkeys (that’s us), and they like their comfort and they don’t do the sharing thing.
We have a nice squishy dog pillow in the conservatory covered with the most wonderful soft fleece, and we’ve moved the magnificent Orvis dog sofa close to the door now the weather’s warmer. In the lounge there is a soft-sided dog bed (perfect for keeping out those pesky draughts) which contains a squishy pillow. Next to it, a pad covered in VetBed for those occasions when those elegant long limbs need to stretch out a bit. The office is home to another soft-sided dog bed complete with fleece pillow and yet another flat dog pad, this one covered in a tasteful damson coloured fabric and leatherette – and there’s also the futon which The Princess has taken over as her own. The Pirate doesn’t do jumping up onto furniture, he’s too old and his arthritic old legs won’t take it any more, but that’s OK because after all, pirates aren’t royalty, are they? Even if his bloodlines are a damn sight more distinguished than my own. Perhaps I should mention that the Pirate can trace his ancestry back to a dog called King Cob, born in 1838, and a very famous progenitor of successful racers. The Princess, on the other hand is a descendent of Emperor, another equally noble greyhound sire.
But anyway, we were talking about dog beds, were we not? And a strange thing happened the other day. I’d been shopping and brought home a piece of 2″ thick furnishing foam. I had my hands full and dropped it in the hallway intending to pick it up and take it upstairs for the craft project I had in mind for it, but when I turned around, I found that the Princess had already adopted it.
Can anyone tell me why a blue-blooded aristocrat of a dog with six dog beds plus two sofas and an armchair to choose from should prefer to lie on a rough cut, naked piece of grubby blue foam? And in the hallway too, where clumsy monkeys might tread on her dainty paws in passing?
I can only assume it’s a bizarre manifestation of Cardboard Box syndrome. You know the one. It’s the cause of that perversity that has kids abandoning toys to play with the boxes.
It’s either that, or she thought maybe she’d get more petting if she put herself right where people would walk past most often. But I can’t help wondering … does she actually remember the days when she lived in a breeze block kennel and slept on shredded paper?