Tiny has not one but two memory foam beds. He seems to prefer the one in the living room, possibly because it's firmer but also, I suspect, because it is closer to the door. He is our border patrol, our homeland security, our night guard. Or maybe he's just plotting his escape. But I doubt that-- he really is seeming to understand more and more each day that he belongs here, he's safe now, we aren't going to kick him out or lop off his balls, and that eating organic food and sleeping indoors is not an option, it's a requirement.
Anyway, last night I convinced him to sleep in the bedroom with the rest of us. A little after 7 am, my eyes opened about an hour ahead of schedule. And there he was, his face in mine, Mr. Stealthy patiently waiting, telepathing to me this would be an excellent time to let him out for a poo. Good boy Tiny!
Then he broke his silence momentarily and said, "I really appreciate the three hots and two cots, but I can't just stay here no strings attached. I must earn my keep."
I explained to him something it took me years to learn in therapy. I said to him, "Justice Tiny Tweedy Love Button Garbo LISTEN TO ME!! You do not need to earn space on the planet. You were born here. So you get to take up space. It's cool. Just relax. You've clearly been through some hard times. Now you must sit, stay, heal."
Tiny thanked me (he's so polite). And he said he would try to absorb the lesson on a cellular level, but in the meanwhile could he please just help out a little? He pointed out that as a working dog, it actually makes him feel better to have a job. So I said, "All right. If you insist. How about you wash the dishes?"
And so he did. Good boy, Tiny! Thank you!