An update on our pup

A quick update on the most popular member of our family according to all members of our family; our dog, Murphy.  We regularly receive updates from the kind man watching our house, Midhun, who has been essentially making a documentary of his care of him.  Murphy might refer to the documentary as The Best Days of My Life.

As some of you may know, our home is the equivalent of a canine comfort desert.  There is no bacon.  There is a permanent restriction on seconds and thirds and elevenses (Murph is likely closest to a Hobbit by nature if not appearance).  But most troubling, dogs are not allowed on the furniture.  Amy's point has always been that Murphy has more beds than anyone in the house (he has five scattered around the house) so he can just deal.  But still, a dog's bed is not a couch.  

Murph went through a brief period in which he combined performative art with protest.  In this piece, he seems to be commenting on the quality of his bed.

We have long suspected that, in retaliation, Murphy has been sneaking couch time when we are out running errands or even just out of the room.  Sometimes, we would walk out of our bedroom and hear a jingle and a jump on the ground.  Could be random dog noises.  Could be a dog jumping off a couch.

We soon found more compelling evidence, as the tan couch was covered with a level of black dog fur that would be unlikely to waft through the air.  Accepting a bit of defeat, Amy placed a pink towel on the couch to limit the amount of fur.  Soon, the pink towel had a layer of black dog fur.

The problem is that this has been circumstantial evidence at best.

But now we have proof (sent to us by Midhun). 

The story goes like this.  Midhun went downstairs for a few minutes, leaving Murph in the living room.  As Midhun was coming back upstairs, he heard a sound.  Could be a random dog noise.  Could be the sound of a nervous couch squatter.  

This picture captures Murph's "Innocent Dog Look" or "Pleading Cow Eyes."  

In the past, I've awakened in the middle of the night to get a drink of water and, on the way back to bed, I will often glance into the living room to see a dark shape nestled on the couch.

Dream?  Reality?  Doesn't matter.

"Good for you," I whisper.