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sleeping in the winter


He waits by the side of the bed, his bottom on the floor, front legs pulled right in to his chest of regal curls, and tail limply out behind him. It is morning, he knows. In the window’s light his hair is a shining coat and he holds his head high, expectant. He lifts a paw, places it against the wooden frame and lets it slip briefly. His tail twitches, and he taps on the wood again, looks readily up at the shut-eyed half-face snuggling into the pillow, and taps, shifts his weight onto his back legs and tries tries tries to hoist his fat end right up to say it is morning, it is morning. A sound comes from the half-face, and the pup goes into spasm: his tail, his ears, his trembling nose. But then the half-face is gone and it is just a pile of hair and a swirl of a crown, hidden mostly under the doona. He whimpers quietly: wake up, wake up! There is a wedge of light to be had! After a moment, he pushes his legs out in front of him, and lets his body, his rump, meet fully the warm boards. He closes his eyes. It is morning, he knows.

Find out more about this Hello Sunday tale.

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