Number One Son loves his bed. It's his special place for himself and for his special things. Being an avid collector of rocks, doggie chew bones, plant cuttings and an assortment of tennis balls, when socks go missing you know where to look. Fortunately he's grown out of the 'I'm so distressed because you went out today I'm going to eat my bed' phase. Having replaced the trampoline style bed with all four corners gnawed it was only an afternoon chew away from his backside landing firmly on the ground. He was wise to stop when he did. His current bed has a certain smell about it, something between a stale gym locker and a once lost pile of raw mince. All the better from his point of view. From this bed we hear the snores of a tired doggy dreaming of coffee shops, farmers markets and bloody possum on the back fence. In his dreams he is barking the most threatening of doggie anger but in reality we hear a soft "Yip. Yip. Yip" coming from the corner. He awakes with a loud yawn to tell the world he's ready for a new day and trots off into our bedroom. Come on get up it's a brilliant day, his tail wags with force and he licks legs and arms as they dangle from under the doona. If only we could all wake up like our dogs each day I'm sure life would seem better. Then if my bed smelled that rank I'd be quick to get out of it too. So this weekend it's dog bed washing weekend. He'll give me that look like I've stolen it as I proceed to drown his much loved bedding and watch the water turn a murky brown. He'll sook in the corner with a long face until it's put back exactly where it was with everything back in it. He just can't have my socks back and that meat smell... I'll guess we'll never know.