We are not at church. We volunteered to dogsit for some Princeton friends of ours, before we fully apprehended the consequences of that offer — namely, that the pug for whom we were caring is accustomed to sleeping with his owners, indeed, to burrowing into the bedclothes adjacent to them. And snoring. Add to that Beatrice’s pangs of dispriz’d love, such that she could not control her whines and moans nor keep herself from snapping and growling at the indigenous pug. And an aging Westie, who keeps her own counsel and nips at anyone who presumes to propose an alternative (based on human sensibilities). All of this made for two sleep- and comfort-deprived adults, one of whom is now lying abed while the other attends to Bea’s needs, in anticipation of swapping off in a while.