A disturbing buzz drowns out the Sigur Ros channel on Pandora.
My hubby closes the dog door. I pour another cup of coffee and turn up the volume on moody guitar strings and Icelandic vocals.
My Saturday morning habits do not fool Daisy. She jumps up on the couch with enough force to push it against the window. She pokes her head out the blinds, bending back flimsy plastic strips. She spots the gardeners invading her home. She barks off an alarm to her pack.
I drag her back to the couch for more cuddles. She calms down with her dirty, chewed-up Binky. Daisy nibbled off the blue furry day a few weeks ago. Mark says we have a couple of new Binkys, on stand-by in the garage.
Back to the Daisy cuddle method. It involves a lot of fur. Black slacks and dry-clean only clothes are collateral damage when Daisy noses her way onto my lap. I use the couch blanket to cover up work clothes. With head low and butt up in the air, Daisy sniffs out the perfect lap position. Sometimes this lasts for minutes. It feels like she’s trying to cover my legs and arms with her puppy scent. She always ends up stretched out across my thighs, head between her paws.
There’s a bedroom variation to the Daisy cuddle method. Her goal: to make sure we’re connected before we nod off. I expect more sniffing. Sometimes, a snorkle escapes from her furry lips. She noses her way around my knees if I’m sitting up with a book. Into the nook, by my armpit, if I’m lying down. She achieves foam mattress zen when she curls up into a ball by my side, with a bony elbow covering my hip or part of my leg. Or her chin lands on my limb, her big brown eyes stay on my face as they flutter shut. I think this is her way of telling me: “Things will be OK. I’m here for you.”