You may have noticed the new frame. Broad planks, low to the floor, stretching well beyond the mattress it holds.
Right now, our old queen perches there, a little island in the middle of a wooden sea. It looks less like a bed and more like a stage waiting for its star.
Tomorrow, if the truck shows, the king arrives. A mattress said to be so wide a man can stretch without fear of paws or tails pushing him to the brink. A mattress meant for space, for comfort, for the kind of sleep poets call “rest.”
But I know you two. You begin the night curled small, courteous as monks. Then dreams arrive, and with them, conquest.
Charlie lengthens across the diagonal like a fencer with a blade. Jadie, sunflower that she is, unfurls petal by petal until she holds half the bed in her bloom.
By morning, I am once again pressed to the rim, clinging like a cliff diver.
And yet, even as I daydream of space, I know better. Kings do not rule here. Packs do. What matters isn’t the width of the mattress but the weight of the bodies that choose to rest beside me.
So yes, pups, tomorrow we may find out what sleep in a king feels like. But tonight, on this undersized queen in an oversized frame, I already know what home feels like.
Love,
The dad on the edge
