Today I woke up with your paws on my butt

I was the little spoon in our snuggle

I had a hangover, the good kind

The kind where you don’t feel too bad really

The kind where beating up your insides feels like you got a deep tissue massage

The kind where there are a few mysteries to solve

I turned around and inductively charged my soul by the smell of your belly

After a few good long minutes of this, we made out

This morning I woke up with a hangover

The bad kind

The kind where there’s a headache

The kind where there’s a dry mouth and throat

The kind where your stomach hurts a vaguely concerning amount

I woke up an hour before my alarm

You woke up up too, after a moment

You stretched and dug your warm back into the side of my legs

I pet you and told you good morning, because suddenly it was

I woke up this morning with no hangover,

And well rested.

You laid reversed beside me

Like we were a Jack, or Queen, or King.

Your sleeping hind legs were atop my chest.

I stayed lying with my eyes closed, and breathed.

Eventually you had a dream that you were running,

And I was the ground.

Thank you.

Waking up hungover again,

sensitivity overtuned to accepting stimuli from the world,

I eventually roll towards you

and you, bless you, snuggle back into me

so we can spoon.

Overly sensitive,

tender,

I get to feel all of your dogness.

It is in the weight of your head on my arm

that you use as a pillow.

It is in the endearing way all of your bones move around inside of you.

It is in the sound your paws make when they scratch

against the bedsheets

or when they tap against the wall.

It is in your look

when I open my eyes and look at you, and,

hi,

yes,

look at you, you are a dog here

snuggling with me

on a hungover morning—

I love that: that you are a dog.

It’s good to see you.

It is in the smell of the top of your head

and it is in your big-tongued and wide-mouthed kiss.

I love you.

Good morning, my dog.