The frozen bone is finished. The living room sofa presents itself as the logical conclusion.

Gus arrived first. He has claimed the center cushion with the thoroughness of someone who understands leverage. His position suggests permanence. His breathing suggests satisfaction.

I approach from the left. The gap between Gus and the armrest measures approximately one basset hound width, if that basset hound is willing to compress slightly and overlook the fact that Gus’s back leg has somehow extended into the theoretical space.

I pour myself into the available territory.

Gus grunts. This is his standard commentary on revised seating arrangements. It contains multitudes—mild protest, grudging acceptance, the suggestion that he was here first, and a note of surprise that I have once again defied the basic principles of physics.

His leg remains where it was. My hip settles against it. Neither of us moves.

The sofa holds us both, though the engineering seems questionable. We are two dogs pretending this is a two-dog sofa. The cushions disagree. They have compressed beyond their intended specifications.

Gus sighs and shifts his weight. This creates a momentary pocket of space. I adjust accordingly. The pocket disappears. We have reached equilibrium.

From the kitchen comes the sound of the dishwasher beginning its cycle. From the studio, Dad’s keyboard. From outside, the wind in the ponderosas. The house settles into its Friday evening rhythm.

Gus’s breathing deepens. His eyes close. The territorial dispute appears to be resolved through the simple passage of time and the universal truth that a warm sofa shared is better than a cold floor alone.

I remain alert for exactly thirty-seven seconds, monitoring for any signs of renewed border negotiations. Gus does not stir. His back leg continues its gentle pressure against my ribs.

Sleep approaches with the weight of a well-earned Friday. The frozen bone has left its mark—satisfaction in the jaw, contentment in the belly, the particular peace that comes from having thoroughly worked a marrow center.

The sofa holds us both. Barely. Perfectly.

~P.W.