My dog does not care where heat comes from, but he cares ardently that it come, and soon. Indeed he considers my ability to make it come as something magical, for when I rise in the cold black pre-dawn and kneel shivering by the hearth making a fire, he pushes himself blandly between me and the kindling splits I have laid on the ashes, and I must touch a match to them by poking it between his legs. Such faith, I suppose, is the kind that moves mountains.
Aldo Leopold
Not just for the birds
I don’t imagine Leopold’s dogs had cushy pads and chairs by the fire.
You’re probably right, Larry. I’d like to know, though. My dogs don’t make me reach between their legs to light the fire, though. But they do sit right in front of it, waiting and looking and wondering until it’s warm enough for them to lie down and go to sleep on their cushy pads and chairs. They’re there when I leave, in the dark, for school, and often there when I get home, often in the dark.