We don’t have carpet. My allergies can’t handle it, and, frankly, we both hate to vacuum. So, when Sam gets to go to my mom’s house, say, or somewhere that is carpeted, he likes to roll around on it like the little fingers of thread are a zillion little hands, massaging and scratching him.

When we’re at home, the couch in the office serves this purpose well:

This week I let him stay in the backyard too long, and he came back inside with about a million little sticky seeds in his fur; now, they’re ALL OVER the couch and the floor in there.

“Sorry.”

“Ah, that’s okay, buddy, I just… hey!”

“Sorry. I just don’t like it when you take my picture.”

“Well too bad! You have to earn your keep around here, buddy.”

“So then maybe I should pose like this, as cute as possible?”

“That would be fine, just hold… hey!!”

“Sorry, I had an itch.”