Somehow, some way, when we weren't looking, Ben managed to high-jack the blue blanket on the futon in our upstairs TV room. He LOVES this blanket. It is his life, the core of his existence, his raison d'etre.
Ben is cozied up on Blue Blankie as I write, his nose nestled deep in its folds. And I'm writing on the floor, I should add, because he's appropriated the entire futon -- and Blue Blankie -- for his afternoon nap.
I'm not sure how or why Ben developed his love affair with this particular blanket. When you live in a 70-year-old house, in a clime where temps can go sub-zero at the drop of a hat in the winter, there are blankets for the choosing in any room where you might stop moving for any appreciable amount of time. Ben doesn't really give a rip about any of them, except for Blue Blankie.
Usually a very deferential dog when it comes to joining us on bed or futon, Ben doesn't wait for an invite up when Blue Blankie is in sight. And god forbid, you might be using the blanket yourself. There's nothing like a Blue Blankie Stink-eye to get life's priorities in order.
It goes something like this:
Except worse.
Blue Blankie has a positively narcotic effect on Ben. Once he's happily situated in and on the blanket, Ben gives a short, soft moan of a happiness, sighs deeply and falls into an almost catatonic state of contentment. A legion of mailmen and UPS guys could not wake him.
Blue Blankie Bliss. I think I gotta get me some of this sugar.
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