One time, my human decided to wash my blanket just as I had finally settled down for a nap. We were in the bathroom: my owner was sorting laundry, and I was lying beside the washing machine because the floor was heated there. For a dog, it’s a perfectly respectable spot after a walk. I had already tucked my paws in when she said, “Move over, Amara,” and tugged the edge of the blanket. I had to get up. Humans seem to think that if they aren’t sleeping, it’s too early for anyone else.

My owner dropped the blanket into the open laundry basket and went back to sorting towels. I carefully pulled it out with my teeth, carried it back to the warm tiles, and smoothed it with my front paws. One corner was folded over, but that hardly mattered for sleeping. My owner turned around just as I was lowering my head. “It’s dirty,” she explained, taking the blanket away again. I sniffed the edge as it passed my nose. It smelled of home, me, and yesterday’s walk. A perfectly normal blanket, with no unpleasant surprises.

This time, my owner put the basket on a stool so I couldn’t retrieve the blanket again. I sat underneath and looked up. Jumping for the sake of an afternoon nap would be taking things too far. Beside me lay a clean towel she had just brought in from the drying rack. I touched it with my nose, then looked at my owner. She picked it up and put it on a shelf. Apparently, meaningful looks weren’t enough to arrange an exchange. I had to get up and move closer.

I pulled another clean towel off the bottom shelf, gripped it in my teeth, and carried it to my warm spot. Before my owner could say anything, I lay down on it and closed my eyes. “Fine. But that one’s going in the wash afterward too,” she said. The machine began to hum, my blanket tumbled behind the glass, and the towel stayed underneath me. The exchange had worked. Unfortunately, it was a hand towel: whenever I got my front paws onto it, my back paws ended up on the tiles. I had to sleep very compactly.