On Dogsitting the Nut

This is Peanut, also known as The Nut. He's the one I almost impaled with an imaginary spear last weekend when I mistook his midnight presence for a warthog. Oops.

One of the best parts about watching the Nut, other than a warm body in my bed hogging the pillows like oh so many boyfriends of yesteryear, is where he resides: the Loft. The Loft is a place I like to fancy my own while I'm dogsitting. I sprawl out on the huge expanse of sofa, a sofa the likes of which one could not even fit up my stairs, let alone through the World's Narrowest Doorway leading to the World's Smallest Living Room, and luxuriate in my surroundings.

At the Loft, where the huge, two-story, floor-to-ceiling windows grace my chic, lounging figure with sunlight and warmth, I command the Nut to bring Mother a drink. I am Urban, I tell him, and I am Hip. I own a LOFT and as someone so young and sleek and rich and good-looking, the LEAST I deserve is to have a DRINK brought to me. The Nut just looks at me, like, "RIGHT. All over that." Something else he has in common with the boyfriends of yesteryear. Then he immediately goes back to his ever-occupying hobby of throwing his bone in the air. He's usually just relieved that I'm not spinning in circles in my socks on the polished concrete floors, singing 'I am sixteen, going on seventeen!' or hanging over the balcony belting out the entire score of My Fair Lady. Although I'm not gonna lie: if I bribe him with a treat, he'll do a pretty good Professor Higgins.