Fur against skin against blankets against moonlight against sweet air
Scout’s been jumping on the bed in the middle of the night. This is impressive. The top of our mattress comes well above my own waist—and our cattle dog is just under 20” at the withers.
Technically Scout isn’t allowed on furniture without permission. It’s been that way since 2020. But we relaxed those rules (inadvertently at first) after moving into our van. There really isn’t furniture in here. I mean, the bed, but the way it’s built into the back of our van doesn't feel like a separate object as a standalone frame did in our house’s bedroom. Same story with the cab chairs.
So sometimes we go to bed after deciding we’ll sleep alone, Scout cozy in her open crate, step stool stored out of reach, and nonetheless wake at two am with her warmth atop our feet. Sometimes we make her get off. Sometimes we lean into it.
Mostly we lean into it.
We all sleep worse together. Our van’s walls close in our heads and feet, not even an inch to spare when I stretch full length (something Sean can’t quite do at all). Our cabinets leave less than a three foot opening to climb in and out. It’s a tight fit on a sub-full mattress—even tighter with three creatures instead of two—and we end up fighting for space without meaning to, bumping into each other, rolling on a tail in the middle of the night, getting reprimanded with a sleepy yelp.
But I look at this dog—this aging, slowing dog—who is somehow still able to clear a three-times-her-own-height jump in utter darkness. I look at this dog—this loving, trusting dog—whose idea of the best night’s rest is wherever her people are. I look at this dog, and the only answer is to welcome her up and call her over for a chin scratch (when she’s tired, she army crawls, low to the duvet, tail fluttering) and gently press my back against hers and breathe deeply as she does. Her exhales lull my own to sleep.
So last night I found myself, a few hours after sunset, curled in a fetal position listening to my favorite creatures’ heartbeats. Me, Sean, Scout. Crickets sang and leaves rustled and fall air drifted inside and the moon cast crisp shadows behind the van—I thought of John Mayer’s “Wildfire”, tonight the moon’s so bright you could drive with your headlights out—and I felt more content than my past self (resigned to settling for an incessant prickle that there must be more to life) thought possible.
It was the creative time, pre dreams, where my brain runs wild—but cozily so. Thoughts padded down long hallways in comfortable socks, oversized toes squishing against the floor, taking turn after turn without hurry. I outlined paths I might take tomorrow or next week or in a year if the memories don’t resurface sooner.
And among unbidden writing ideas, and places to hike next month, and messages to send, and the first mental draft of this piece you’re reading right now, I stopped to take in the outside world without reimagining it. To ground myself in fur against skin against blankets against moonlight, covered in sweet air.
