There are six dog beds ...three indoor, three out. The big bed ...mine. The cushioned Adirondack chairs, with their armrests at the perfect height for his chin. A quilt in the shop, and sometimes even the bench seat of the truck. 
     But of all the places that Harley has to sleep, with his belly up and his ears flopped, he loves most a spot beneath the old sugar maple out front, where in the morning, sunshine pours through a break in the spring-greened leaves and warms for him a bed of new and downy grass, strategically positioned, so that with only one eye opened he is keenly aware of every trunk down which a squirrel might descend, despite the unlikelihood of his ever rising to give chase.