Marley has to be dragged out of his furniture-quality wooden crate in the morning, such is his love affair with his deep pillow mattress and soft plush blanket. He yawns. He stretches. He asks if I would make him a cappuccino.
Mountain bounces out of her plastic crate in the morning having been lulled to sleep by the soft tumble of the drier and the folded bath towel beneath her. She shoots out between my legs, takes a hard right at the laundry room door, and guns for the garage and outside. There are squirrels to terrify, perimeters to patrol, and birds to shoo from the pond. Who has dared to visit the yard in the night?