If you saw Tobby asleep, you would think he had just come home from twenty hours in a coal mine.
He hasn't, of course. His day usually includes one walk, two naps, a careful inspection of the kitchen and a few serious conversations with the yard cats through the window. But by evening, he collapses as if he has carried the whole world on his back and no one has thanked him for it.
First comes the choosing of the spot. It must be soft. It must be warm. And most importantly, it must be next to one of us. Not near. Next to. Tobby measures distance in centimeters, and the right number is zero.
So he moves closer. And a little closer. A big brown body slowly flowing across the sofa, like a tide that only goes one way. If there is a blanket, he disappears under it. If there is a person under that blanket, even better.
Then the snoring begins. Not a polite little snore. A full, deep, honest snore, the kind that says: I have worked very hard today, and I am not ashamed.
But the most beautiful moment is quieter than that.
It's the moment he finally touches someone. A paw against a leg. His head against a shoulder. His whole warm side pressed into whoever is lying next to him. And the second he feels us, something in him lets go completely. His breathing slows. His eyebrows stop worrying. He sinks into the deepest sleep, like a baby in its mother's arms.
As if he needed to make sure we were still here before he could rest.
I understand him more than he knows. Some nights, I need the same thing. Not words. Not answers. Just something warm and real beside me, telling me without a sound: you're not alone, you can sleep now.
Tobby gives me that every night. Snoring, of course. Loudly.
What helps you fall asleep on the hard nights? A blanket, a sound, a familiar warmth nearby, or maybe you are still looking for it. Any answer is welcome here.
With love, from HerWay (and Tobby)
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