On being selective

When the Orvis catalogue arrived in my mailbox a couple of weeks ago, I thumbed through the dog bed section looking for a bed for Cheyenne. It's not that she doesn't have a bed; the fact is that she has three.  She has one in the kitchen, one in the living room and one at the foot of my bed. She also has access to the furniture since I gave up that battle when she was just a puppy.  The thing is, she's not a puppy anymore, she'll be ten in October.  I have noticed her slowing down a bit lately, tiring sooner than she used to, stretching longer, soreness creeping in her bones after an active time or even an inactive time spent too long in one place.  With that in mind, I was looking for something to give my little brown friend some comfort.

And then I saw it:  The Therapeutic Bolster Bed.  It's designed to give an older dog comfort with memory foam that promotes circulation and cushions joints while preventing discomfort associated with uneven support.  It helps reduce the effect of pressure points and eases joint discomfort. (Confession: that description was lifted from the catalog from memory; there are a few mental edits.) The bolster provides a feeling of security when the dog sleeps. I ordered the Large.

When the new bed arrived, I was taken back by how very large the Large really was.  It's large, like a new piece of furniture large -- it has that kind of presence in the room.  I set it out for Cheyenne, patted my hand on it and told her that it was hers, all hers.  For her comfort and security. 

There was one problem though:



Yeah, Cheyenne didn't take to resting on the new gigantic large bed the size of a piece of furniture purchased just for her comfort and security.  Not so much.

She has, however, taken to it like the new dining table that she thinks it is.



p.s.  As I write this, she's comfortable and sound asleep.  Beside me on the couch.