Poppy’s Tails: The bed negotiation

Let me set the scene. It is 10:47pm. The humans are heading to bed. I am already on the bed. I have been on the bed since approximately 9:15pm, because I believe in establishing territory early.

“Poppy, move over.”

I do not move over. I have selected my position with great care. I am dead centre, slightly towards the pillow end, in what I consider to be the optimal sleeping location. It is warm. It is soft. It smells like my humans. It is mine.

“Poppy. Come on. Move.”

I go limp. This is my signature move. The moment a human tries to physically relocate me, I transform from a six-kilogram dog into what feels like a small bag of wet cement. My body becomes boneless. I am unmovable. I am a furry paperweight with attitude.

The opening gambit

Dad lifts me gently and places me at the foot of the bed. He does this with the misplaced optimism of a man who has done the same thing every night for ten years and still believes it will work.

I wait exactly twelve seconds. I know this because I have timed it. Twelve seconds is long enough for a human to get comfortable, pull the duvet up, and begin to relax. It is not long enough for them to fall asleep. Timing is everything in these negotiations.

I begin the slow crawl. Belly low, paws silent, moving with the stealth of a very small, very fluffy commando. Up the side of the bed, past the knees, past the hip, settling neatly into the warm gap between the two humans. My spot. Reclaimed.

“She is back,” says Mum.

“Of course she is back,” says Dad.

The expansion strategy

Now, here is where it gets tactical. Simply being on the bed is not enough. I need space. Real estate. Room to stretch, turn, and rearrange myself at 3am without anyone complaining about a paw in their kidney.

Phase one: the gentle lean. I press my back against Dad’s side with just enough pressure to suggest I am merely getting comfortable. He shifts an inch. Victory.

Phase two: the stretch. I extend all four legs in a full-body stretch that is technically natural but strategically expands my footprint by about 40%. Mum moves her legs to accommodate. More territory gained.

Phase three: the 3am repositioning. This is the power move. I stand up, circle three times (this is not optional, it is deeply important), and lie back down perpendicular to both humans so that I am essentially a small, furry barricade across the middle of the bed. They now each have approximately 30% of the mattress. I have the rest.

The dog bed situation

I should mention that I have my own bed. It is a lovely bed. It is plush, it is the right size, and it sits in the corner of the bedroom in a prime location. I have never slept in it. Not once. I use it occasionally as a place to store a chew toy, and sometimes I stand on it to look out of the window, but sleep in it? That is what the humans’ bed is for.

They have tried everything. They bought a heated pad for my bed. I ignored it. They put a worn t-shirt in there so it would smell like them. I dragged the t-shirt onto their bed and slept on it there. They tried closing the bedroom door. I scratched at it, whined, and then barked at 2am until they gave in. I am nothing if not persistent.

The spare bedroom experiment

They tried once, about three years ago, to make me sleep in the spare bedroom. They set up my bed in there with a blanket, a toy, and even left the radio on low because apparently dogs find Radio 4 soothing. (They do not. I found it deeply patronising.)

I lasted approximately four minutes before beginning Operation Door Scratch. Phase one: gentle pawing. Phase two: more insistent pawing with added whimpering. Phase three: barking at a pitch specifically designed to make sleep impossible for anyone within a 50-metre radius. Phase four: silence, which was somehow even more concerning because they knew I was plotting.

By 11:30pm the spare bedroom door was open. By 11:31pm I was back on their bed, in my spot, exactly where I belonged. The spare bedroom experiment was never attempted again. I consider this a total and unconditional victory.

The morning aftermath

Every morning is the same. Dad wakes up clinging to the edge of the mattress like a man on a cliff. Mum is curled into a defensive ball on the other side. I am spread across the warm centre, living my absolute best life.

“We need to stop letting her sleep on the bed,” says Dad. He has said this every morning for the past ten years.

“You say that every morning,” says Mum.

“Because every morning I wake up with a paw in my face.”

I stretch luxuriously, yawn, and give Dad a look that clearly communicates: you knew what you were signing up for when you got a Lhasa Apso.

The truth about bed negotiations

Here is the thing about sharing a bed with a Lhasa Apso: there is no negotiation. There is no compromise. There is only surrender. You can buy the fanciest dog bed in the world, set up a perfect sleeping station, and even try the tough love approach. But we both know how it ends. With a small, warm dog taking up exactly the spot you wanted to sleep in.

And secretly, the humans love it. I know they do. Because every time I curl up between them and let out a contented sigh, I feel Dad’s hand reach over and gently scratch behind my ears. And Mum pulls the duvet up to make sure I am warm enough.

They pretend they want me off the bed. But they would miss me if I left. And we all know it.

Does your Lhasa rule the bed too? I know I am not alone in this. Drop your bed-sharing confessions in the comments. No judgement. Well, maybe a little judgement if you actually managed to keep your Lhasa in their own bed. How did you do it? Asking for absolutely no one, because I am not moving.