Today is a holiday in Japan.  It’s part of the Golden Week string of holidays, which affords the working public four days off over the course of one calendar week.  Like most gaijin, I usually just celebrate the virtues of having a day off without taking note of the actual holiday itself.  But today, feeling an urge to identify with my adopted compatriots, I looked it up.  Today is Constitution Memorial Day, when the Japanese celebrate the pacifist constitution that the Americans thrust upon them after World War II.  Interestingly, today’s local paper carried the headline that 64% of Japanese do not favor revising Article 9 of the Japanese constitution, which basically strips the country’s ability to wage war.  I would characterize as a good thing the fact that most Japanese oppose war.  I guess having the unfortunate distinction of being the only country in history to be on the receiving end of not one but two atomic bombs helps bring the idea of war into finer focus.  If only more nations agreed, we could focus our international stratagem on maximizing things like sporting prowess rather than on devising ways to destroy one another.  But that’s a topic for another day.

One of the more meaningful benefits associated with holidays is the ability to sleep in.  As a generally sleep-deprived species, these days are special indeed, the physical equivalent of manna from heaven.  However, my ability to enjoy such luxury is severely impeded by a 10-kilogram furball whose hunger for attention makes Paris Hilton look like an agoraphobe.  You see, our precious dog, Hurley Sue, constantly needs to feel the presence of either Lizzi or me.  This means she either needs to establish a direct physical connection or be located somewhere within a three-foot radius at all times.  Whenever we leave a room, Hurley is guaranteed to be following close behind.  When we are lying on the couch watching an old Woody Allen film – like yesterday, when we revisited the wonderful Annie Hall – Hurley needs to position herself somewhere on the couch that allows her to always be touching one of us.  During such times, she can often be found either perched on top of the couch right above Lizzi’s head (she has this thing about lounging in elevated positions, making us convinced she’s part cat) or sitting on my lap gnawing a chew toy.  When we sleep at night, she can be found nuzzled squarely in between Lizzi and me, forming the perfect Hurley Sandwich.  My guess is this is Hurley’s version of perfection – an ability to enjoy an hours-long physical connection to both of us.

When I’m up late at night on conference calls – or polishing off an Eddyfication post – Hurley can usually be found curled up right next to our desk in one of her three beds spread throughout the house (in fact, she’s snoozing in that very spot as I write this).  Once I finish and head off to bed, she dutifully follows close behind, her clickety-clacks trailing me along our hardwood floor like bread crumbs left to form a trail.

She also insists on waking up with me each morning, when she again assumes the position next to our desk while I check email and sip coffee before heading out for my morning sweat.  When I leave for the gym, she clickety-clacks her way back to bed where she plops herself onto my pillow and snuggles up next to Lizzi.  Upon my return, I usually make a little extra noise in opening the door to ensure that she hears me.  Without fail, I eventually hear the clickety-clack coming down the hall, whereupon I find Hurley in a state of subdued nirvana.  As she shakes off the cobwebs of sleep, it’s clear she doesn’t know whether to be more excited at my presence or by the prospect that my arrival typically means we’re about to head out for our morning walk.

This is all fun and good.  It is truly rewarding to see how much enjoyment she gets in being with us, and there’s a charming familiarity in the routine of it all.  But the bloom comes off the rose when I try to sleep in.  On these days, Lizzi often needs to get up earlier than me so she can attend (or teach) a yoga class.  Hurley is usually preoccupied with being around Lizzi as she preps for class, leaving me to enjoy a prolonged and peaceful slumber in a bed made bigger by their absence.

But when Lizzi leaves, the gloves come off.  Immediately upon the shutting of that front door, Hurley makes a beeline for the bed.  As if on subconscious command, I’m awakened by a forceful and rapid succession of clickety-clacks that grows ever louder as she makes her way to the bedroom.  Once she arrives at the edge of the bed, she turns into the “Hurlster” with a move perfected during our many wrestling bouts.  With the gracefulness of an Olympic gymnast hitting a trampette, she leaps onto the edge of the bed with enough momentum that she hurls herself clear to the other side in one fell swoop.  The hang time she achieves is admittedly quite impressive, and she meets her target with striking precision.  As her paws come crashing down on my head, she then proceeds to deliver a barrage of licks that immediately renders her prey defenseless.  If I attempt to pull the covers over my head, she manages to find the one spot of exposed skin to go to work on.  If I manage to envelop myself in a hermetically-sealed blanket cocoon, she hops off the bed, comes over to my side, and proceeds to whine at me until I finally give in.

Begrudgingly, I concede defeat and roll out of bed, a development welcomed by Hurley with the utmost exuberance.  You can tell when she’s really happy because she shakes her bum with such force that it appears the tail is wagging the body rather than the other way around.  And, of course, once I take up my usual position in front of the computer, Hurley can be found snoring away in her little bed next to the desk, making me wonder what the point of it all was in waking me up.  Alas, I’m sure she has her reasons.  Even if she doesn’t, that’s OK.  As we’ve come to know, this is Hurley’s world and we’re just visiting.