LOVE STORY

Everyone knows I don’t allow dogs on the bed. No exceptions. But when Molly presses her cold, spongy nose against my neck, it’s a shot across the bow. She all but looks at her watch as she waits for me to shove over, and a moment later she is stretched against me.

Molly has accumulated more stuff than a college freshman: treats (dry, chewy, dry with chewy center), leashes (regular and hands-free), bowls (portable and porcelain). Jackets and booties. Baggies and bones. Enough tennis balls to fill a pro’s launcher machine. She has a designated cabinet where I organize her toys and stash her sweaters, and I’ve annexed a snuggery or two in hidden corners.

She’s my comfort, my companion, my protector. She deserves the best I have to offer—including a nightly disregard for my sacrosanct rule. We both know she’s going to end up on the bed. And we both know that when she’s nestled next to me, she’s right where she belongs.

—SARAH RUTLEDGE