Home alone on a Saturday afternoon. The laundry has been sorted and prepared for the short journey from bedroom to laundry room. As I'm reaching for the baskets I notice the unmade bed out of the corner of my eye. I decide to straighten the blankets and fluff the pillows before exiting. I take a moment to admire the precise fold in the recently purchased comforter and the inviting mound of pillows. Call me crazy, but I've got a thing for well made beds.
Fast forward to ten minutes later. The washing machine is thumping quietly and I'm back upstairs, rounding a corner in the hallway and just about to step into the bedroom when I'm confronted with this:
An obviously unmade bed.
First I delve into my unusually faulty memory to determine if I had, in fact, made the bed only ten minutes before, but I quickly come to an affirmative conclusion. This is followed by a very short moment of panic, because really, how does a bed unmake itself? Was there someone in the house with me? Had the mischievious gremlins who I continually blame for all misfortunes and missing objects truly come to life? Had some poor man with an uncanny sense of humor die during construction of our house in the 1960s and his ghost thought it comical to come back for one last prank?
I stand staring at the bed for what seems like hours when I notice a clue. A supiciously round lump has formed under the blanket near the end of the bed. I poke it.
At first the mysterious mass does not move so I poke it again. My stomach drops as the lump begins moving and reconfiguring itself. I force myself to gather all of my courage and slowly pull the blanket back, revealing that I did not have an intruder, an infestation of gremlins, or a problem with poltergeists.
Just a dog with low tolerance for central air and bright sunlight.