The dog woke me up at 4:00 his morning. Apparently, when a large male dog needs to pee bad enough to run back and forth down the hallway, he can still hold it for long enough to make sure he takes the time to go in six different places. Really. Six. While I stand in front of the door wrapped in a towel waiting.
Got a tad distracted...
I crawled back in bed and did the usual, "Must go back to sleep, it's to early to gt up, need to do this and this and that for work, we are so behind, I wonder, he really needs to get more sleep, did he even eat at all today, I mean yesterday? Today I need to, tomorrow I've got to, last week I should have, next will I'll have to..."
He rolled over and put his hand on my thigh. Just like he always does. Every time I get up at night and come back to bed, he places his hand on my thigh or on my hip in his sleep. Every night for nearly 17 years.
In contemplation of what my nights would be like without it, I went back to sleep with a deep seated appreciation for that touch.
I dreamed. Of power and dominance, of the comforts that come with being owned, the adventure that fills ones soul when they let go.
There was peace in the darkness like a thousand quiet candles lighting my way home. And it was was good.