Ranger
Gwenivere has a rule: she will snuggle with you when she is ready, but you can never snuggle with her. On her own time, she will place her body against you, lean up against you, curl up in the crook of your leg—but it will always be on her time. Never yours. If you try to touch her or be near her when she does not invite you, she will growl. She will snap. Her body, her choice.
A recent adventure in growls with Gwenivere.
When I first got a dog, I thought it was going to be snuggles all the time. Part of the reason I got one was to have another living thing with me who I had to care for so I could extricate myself from my studies and work. I thought, along with nice walks and tug-of-war plays, she would also be a little bit snuggle. Which she is. But on her own time.
Even when I sleep, she will cuddle up next to me—for a time. But the moment I move, she jumps ship and goes and sleeps on the couch. She is a rather particular animal, but she doesn't help me so often to get that endorphin rush that is to touch and to be touched.
Because I need to sleep with some form of pressure against my body, I usually sleep up against a body pillow with my arms wrapped around another pillow and usually another pillow near my legs. It's a pillow jamboree in my bed. So, it's always nice when Gwenivere deigns to join, but ever so often, she will leave—whether I move a little, whether the light of my phone is on, or whether the TV still plays. Her bedtime means darkness; my bedtime means winddown time. They don't always match up.
Enter, Ranger.
Ranger the husky.
One night, some friends and I found ourselves at IKEA. As we traversed the hallways of kitchens and living rooms, we finally came to the end where the stuffies are kept. I lamented to Sean that I had thrown out all of my stuffed animals before going off to graduate school, thinking it was "time to grow up." Sean, in antiestablishmentarian wisdom, just shrugged. I, of course, cuddled different ones, pointing to the dinosaurs or the whales, yearning for the stuffies of yesteryears.
As we made our way through the department, I pointed to a cute little husky. The husky is the mascot for the University of Connecticut, so Sean encouraged me to pick one up; I demurred, thinking Gwenivere would find it an adorable chew toy. Then, we turned around and found the larger version of the huskies. Sean handed one to me, and I instantly fell in love.
I knew I needed it.
A stuffed animal of a dog? But you have a dog, you might say. Yes, yes, I do. You're in your thirties, you might think. Yes, yes I am.
Age is one of those interesting things that keep us from doing so much. As we grow up, we hope for that eventual time of passage when we get to date, drive a car, drink alcohol, rent a car, travel on our own, hold a job. But with that growing up, we also feel some societal constraints: you're too old to swing on swings; you're too old to have stuffed animals; you're too old to dance in the rain; you're too old to— The list does go on, but it doesn't need to.
I got rid of my stuffed animals, even though I knew I needed them to support my own version of healthy sleeping, because I thought I was too old for them. Turns out, I’m not—and turns out, I need one or two to sleep well (I’ve slept so well every night since getting Ranger). Ranger, too, is now a nice sentinel who looks over my made bed and sends me out to have a good day.
So, cheers to stuffies. Cheers to realizations about age. And cheers to better nights of sleep.
Oh, and as always, cheers to the real queen of my heart, Janeway—I mean, Gwenivere.
Gwenivere asleep on my bed with Janeway from Star Trek: Voyager in the background on the TV.
