My life has changed a lot since I added dogs to the family. Animals leave a permanent mark on your heart; they also leave some marks on your stuff.
Like the title says, I used to have a sleeping bag. It was a pretty spiffy one for when I bought it — back in my high school days, when I would spend part of the summer as a counselor at a camp for kids with asthma in Medford, NJ. The days were hot but the nights were surprisingly chilly, and my super cushy flannel sleeping bag was just perfect. After I graduated from college, the sleeping bag took up residence in the trunk of my car — just in case I needed to spend the night somewhere that wasn’t home, I had something to sleep on. It moved with me to Vermont and back to New Jersey.
And that’s where I lost it.
A friend had come to visit and spent the night — I gave her the bed and I slept on the floor on the sleeping bag. The next day, before I had a chance to roll it up and pack it away, it had been claimed by Moose and Lally. They wouldn’t let me pick it back up. I wasn’t allowed to put it away. It was theirs.
Once in a while, I’m allowed to wash it, but then I have to put it back where it belongs. Now that we’ve moved into a new apartment, the sleeping-bag-slash-dog-bed has a place of honor in the office. Lally (usually) or Moose (when his sister allows it) will snooze there while I work. No amount of washing will get the dog smell out of it, or the dog hair off of it.
It’s no longer my sleeping bag. It’s Lally’s sleeping bag, and sometimes Moose’s sleeping bag. And that’s okay with me. There are lots of other things that we share — like the bed and the couches. There are lots of things that are just mine — like anything chocolate, and most of my meals.