The view from my pillow.
After a lifetime of heading upstairs every night to sleep at the foot of my bed, this has been a huge problem.
For a few weeks this summer, when he still had the strength to wobble his own way down, we would airlift him up by means of a blanket.
But then my poor brave dog lost his nerve for coming down. As he stood one day at the top of the stairs, trembling and whining in protest, I knew the end had come.
So now Ranger sleeps downstairs. And I sleep downstairs with him.
For awhile, he was content to let me snooze on the couch while he laid on the floor at my side. But then he got lonely.
So now I sleep on the floor next to him. Every night. All night long.
He is happy.
He sprawls out next to my improvised nest of blankets; sometimes, when I get up, he still has the sass to move in and hog the whole thing.
He likes to stay close to me; almost always, he rests one of his paws over my leg or foot, his own private alarm system to alert him if I dare to move away.
He sleeps like an angel; no more does he toss and turn as in months gone by, waking every few hours to pace and whine.
He is content.
And so am I.