The Couch

My loyal readers know that there is a rule in my house that states that I'm not allowed on the furniture.  My loyal readers also know that there has, traditionally, only been a halfhearted enforcement of said rule.  In short, Ma and Sister let me hang out on the furniture and Pa, well, he strongly disapproves.

Lately, however, the epic struggle between me being comfortable on the nice soft couch or uncomfortable on the cold hard floor seems to be shifting further and further in my favor.  You see, Ma has officially designated part of the couch as being mine.  Now you might ask: How do you know that that particular spot on the couch is yours?  Well, it's really quite simple.  One day, after vacuuming all the fur off of the couch (amassed from the times I spent sleeping on it when no one was looking), Ma took an old bed sheet, draped it over the seat, back, and arm rest, then gave me the "up, up, up" command while patting the spot with her hand.

And that was all I needed.  I jumped up onto the couch, curled up into a tight little ball, and took a nap.

Now I spend most evenings snoozing on the couch.  Sometimes, because Ma is so close (her spot is down the other end of the couch--that's right, I'm kind enough to share with her), I let her rub my belly.  Belly rub or not, my spot is heavenly (or it would be if someone would just turn off the lights and stop taking pictures so I can get a good night's sleep)!