With my dog Max 1995

At this age, I may have lost count of how many people I’ve slept with in my life, but I can count on my hand the number of dogs with whom I’ve shared my bed.

Only two.

You always remember your first, and my yellow Labrador retriever, Max, was memorable. (Frankly, a lot more memorable than the awkward 19-year-old closeted gay boy who holds that human distinction )

For thirteen years, Max shared our bed in the city, the Hamptons, and a sleighbed in Vermont.  At over one hundred pounds, there was a lot of dog to love, and boy, did I love Max. I never minded sleeping on the outer edge of our bed when I snuck into bed late at night when I came in from a night out carousing with friends.

But once Max passed away, my husband Hersh issued an edict, “No more dogs in the bed.” I’m certain I argued my case, but going against a skilled litigator, my arguments fell flat.

Over the next 24 years, our bed was empty of any canine companionship. I would sneak Emerson and then Stanley onto the bed for a quick make-out session, but they slept on their own dog bed at the foot of ours.

When Stanley died in 2024, I may not have known who our next dog would be, but one thing I was certain of -they would be allowed to sleep on the bed with us. That reign of bed banishment imposed by my husband a quarter of a century ago would end.

With Moe

Now Moe is our constant bedmate, and I can’t imagine any other way. The bliss I have sleeping with Moe is indescribable. The joy and tenderness it has brought to Hersh is a delight to watch.

It brought the pack together in ways they were meant to function.

I get to wake up every morning with a sweet smile on my face, and in these times, that is really something.

How many of you sleep with your fur babies?