Master and Commander

My dog humors me most of the time, even though we both know exactly who’s in charge of our house.  Just in case I have overnight memory lapses, this is what my bed looks like every morning:

The green line illustrates the space I’m allowed to use.  Peanut gets the rest of the space in case he needs to readjust in the middle of the night or find a cool spot when the fan isn’t quite cutting it.

I wake up baffled every morning by the fact that a creature 20% the size of me managed to snuggle his way into possession of 75% of the bed space.  Again.

I know I’m part of the problem though.  I tell Peanut how handsome he is several times a day, and I tell him he’s the smartest dog in the neighborhood almost as often.  With all of the compliments the little guy receives, his head is probably way too big for his own good.  He probably thinks he’s next in line to the throne of the kibble company or something.

So what do you think?  If I told him that he was a mangy mutt every day when I got home from work, would he feel honored to be allowed onto the bed and give me more space?  Would he be disgusted by my rudeness and sulk in the corner?  Or would he get all of the other dogs in the neighborhood to form a union to demand better treatment?  If he’s as smart as I tell him he is, he might be reading a book about political coups right now.  Sure, he pretends to be napping under the couch when I get home, but there’s actually a secret stash of books under there.  That’s what I get for not moving the couch to vacuum.  Charlie Brown never checked out Snoopy’s sweet dog house, either.

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