That is the middle of my bed where each night the madam Beabs spools or she nests against the gate of my legs, leaving me a splinters worth of room on which I manage some sleep. Somewhere in the night I do something, I believe; roll over, free up a foot to place right under a snout. Something. I have no idea what. But she ends up foregoing nesting in the middle of my bed, all sixty pounds of her, for the loveseat (which is hers; you wouldn't want to sit on it) in the front room.
The front room is cold and she has opinions about that. Storm windows? What are storm windows she seemed to ask me the other day, before moaning and climbing up on the loveseat, turning round and round stirring the soup of a down throw. Good for her.