There are a lot of good spots in our house.  There’s the spot upstairs in my study under the big picture window.  If you choose to camp out there you can sit in the easy chair and watch the world pass by from that elevated viewpoint.  The Crepe Myrtle trees are big enough now that they frame the windows with scores of lovely purple flowers.  And there is the space downstairs next to the piano.  You can snuggle into one of the captain’s chairs by the window looking to the street.  That’s the most likely space to steal time alone out of the hustle and bustle of the commotion in the house.  Then there is the spot next to the fireplace in the family room.  Although we seldom have the fire going, it still affords a comfortable environment being next to the massive inside tree and the windows looking out into the garden.  Of course you can always settle into the spot in the bedroom, where it is kept dark enough to sleep and light enough to read, which usually lends itself to doing a little bit of both on rainy days.

With all these prime places to snuggle up and snooze away your idle moments it amazes me that my dog Max chooses none of them.  Rather, he chooses the one underneath my feet at my desk—close enough that I can reach down and stroke his back and scratch him behind the ear.  I suppose I should consider myself a lucky man, indeed, that that silly dog would rather be nowhere else except with me.  Every time I prepare to leave the house I see him watching me with expectation, waiting for me to say, “OK, you can go.”  And as I drive down the road with him propped up next to me watching the birds on the power lines and looking for cows in the passing fields, I know he is there because he wants to be with me.  And in his own way he has done what many have never done—he makes me feel very special.

He’s lying there beneath my feet as I write this—sound asleep, occasionally snoring, trusting and content with his world.  He’s where he wants to be, and I’m glad and very grateful that he is there.