The Sliding Scale of Comfort

I'm a comfortable dog; a very comfortable dog.  I'm such a comfortable dog that I have actually developed my very own sliding scale of comfort.  Check it out:

1. Hardwood floor.
2. Rug.
3. Muddy patch in the backyard.
4. Clothing left on the floor (after I shred it, of course).
5. Plush toy (just before I rip out the stuffing).
6. Dog pillow.
7. Chairs (because they are smaller than a couch).
8. Couches (because they are larger than a chair).
9. Beds.
10. To be determined.

You might have noticed that I have not named the ultimate level of comfort.  Truth be told, I haven't discovered it yet.  The way I see it, I don't want to limit my comfort possibilities by declaring an ultimate winner without having tried out every surface available.  With that said, I believe that I might have discovered a runner up--a 9.5 you might say.  A couple of days ago, I discovered the level of comfort supplied by a full body pillow.

Aunt B gave Sister said full body pillow (a giant horseshoe shaped pillow which is supposed to support the body when sleeping) at Christmas, and as soon as she took it out of the box and tossed it on the bed, I was absolutely, 100% positive that I was not going to like it.  You see, when I say that the pillow's giant, I mean giant...it takes up nearly half of the bed!  Consider this: if I get 3/4 of the bed and Sister gets 1/4, adding a giant pillow should be mathematically impossible!  And then there's the height.  When the pillow is on the bed, I can barely see over top of it let alone jump onto the mattress (fluffiness, I admit, is a plus when it comes to pillows, but it is always smart to look before you leap).

So what does one do when one does not get one's way?  One sulks.  And sulk I did.  First, I spent a couple of nights down in Ma and Pa's room even though I'm not allowed to sleep on their bed and had to settle for my dog pillow.  When that got old, I decided to spend a few nights sleeping on my pillow in Sister's room with the intention of showing my displeasure by staring up at her with sad eyes and whining piteously.  Sister slept right through my act.  Realizing that a different approach was necessary I chose sarcasm.  The next night I jumped up on the bed (using the side without the pillow), curled up as small as I could on the furthest corner, hung my head off the side of the mattress to emphasize the lack of space, and sighed as loudly as I could.  And do you know what?  Sister was still able to ignore me.  Pillow 3; Rigby 0.

I decided then that passive aggression was not going to work; I was going to have to face my problem head on.  The following night, I marched myself up to Sister's room, approached the pillow from its side of the bed, and, with a mighty leap, propelled myself up and over its fluffy white side.

Long story short, I learned the meaning of the adage "don't judge a book by its cover" that night.  The full body pillow can stay; Sister, on the other paw, might want to go check out my dog pillow (remember Sis, its orthopedic!)