Happiness is a warm dog.

Bedtime around our house has always been on a staggered schedule as the sandman seems to slowly pick us off one at a time over the course of a couple of hours. For years the first one to call it a day was Zoe. Each night she would stand at the bottom of the stairs and glare intensely at us around 9:00. This would generally continue until one of us either told her it was OK or actually escorted her upstairs. But lately, Luka has been beating her by a good half an hour (and he's never been one to wait for an invite). We'll all just be sitting there watching TV and he'll hop up and run upstairs, after which Carrie and I will follow the sound of his footsteps above our heads until we hear a little stutter-step followed by his duvet-muffled landing on our bed.

It may all seem innocent enough, a cute little dog tuckered out from a long day of harassing squirrels and chewing rawhides, but beneath the surface lies the truth—the beginning of a turf war for a good night's sleep. Following his lead, one at a time, we each make our way upstairs to stake our claim to a tiny piece of pillow-topped happiness. Before long there we are, the four of us wrestling for space, Carrie and I tugging at covers being weighted down by over 100 pounds of dogs, the dogs emitting old man-like grumbles every time we disturb them. Every once in a while everyone rotates positions, but for the most part we're glued to one another for the next 7-8 hours. The thing is, the idea of kicking the dogs off the bed just isn't an option, we may not get a lot of sleep, but what we get is quality. There is just nothing like being pinned in the fetal position by a warm dog on a cold winter night (or any night for that matter).