My favorite time of the day is when Sam is sleeping. I curl next to him with a book, and watch him surrender to the sandman's spell, head nodding and then relaxing into the arm of our ugly leather sofa. Sometimes he will shift, moving closer to me, burrowing under a fold of my great wooly cardigan, the grape-juice whiff of his shampoo and the corn-chip aroma of his underbelly rising and intermingling. Sometimes he may snort and snuffle, as if spying a nemesis--our hapless neighbour, perhaps--in his dreams, and I might scratch the top of his soft head, so that he relaxes, his open unseeing eyes shutting.

In those times, I feel trusted; I offer him the temporary safety of my presence. There is no better peace than those moments. Uncertainty is at bay: all there is in the world is me and my dog, the absent husband to return soon; our bodies will return to their beds, disaster averted for that day.





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