When Abelard is drowsy, he will often curl up against my back—or drape his head across my torso—and drop into a wild and natural sleep.
Abelard snores: his breathing is wet and sonorous and deep. This dog shows himself to be a true slumberer, a gourmand of snooze, an enthusiast of rest, a sleeper of great gusto.
In other words, Abelard is the young canine Orson Wells of deep sleep and I love him for it.
But there’s something funny about Abelard and his sleep, and by funny, I mean strange. I’ve discovered that I have to make sure I’ve finished getting ready for bed myself before I settle in with Abelard because his sleep-sounds are a natural soporific.
It’s a shock, I tell you, to wake up and discover that I’ve managed to fall asleep with my clothes and street shoes on. Again. I’m a lifelong, honest-to-goodness, there-are-doctors-involved insomniac—this sort of thing doesn’t happen in my world, ever.
Yet, thanks to Abelard, I sleep. It’s suddenly very simple. I brush my teeth for two minutes; attend to my skin; straighten the covers; listen to Abelard gulp and snore and fuffle, and WHAMMO!—I’m out.
Gee, just thinking about Abelard’s artful torpor makes me want to head off to Snoozeville. Let’s see if Abelard is ready for bed. Abelard? Bed?
Ah, here he comes.
Hand me that butterfly net, will you? I want to catch some z’s.