Outside, Bud sees himself as a mighty hunter, inside I call him Bud The Burrower. He’s like a weasel sometimes, he can wheedle his way into the narrowest and most crowded spaces.

In the morning, I let him out of his crate an hour or so before sunrise, he hops up onto the bud and burrows into against my back or legs or wedges himself into Maria’s back.

He slithers slowly up the bed until I wake up to snoring on my chest, or he’s slithered up to the pillows and dug in. He is a small dog, but he is not easy to move once he’s burrowed in.

Today, on the living room sofa, he twisted himself into a pile of quilts and blankets and eventually disappeared into them. But the Burrower.