Riley loves his comfort. And he particularly is fond of our bed. At night, regardless of the season, he insists that it is his right and his vital need to burrow down deep into the bed, beneath the feather comforter in winter, the lightly draped topsheets in summer. We wonder sometimes whether he can breathe freely, so closely ensconced in there, but obviously he has no problems with that close, stifling confinement. As regular as clockwork, at 6:15 am each morning he clears his way through, tunnelling out of the depths of the bedclothing to surface, and install himself instead outside and atop the comforter to continue his peaceful sleep there until such time as we arise.

Because of the work engaged in while applying a wall surface of very large tiles looking amazingly like stone, my husband has experienced restless nights lately. The effect of reaching up with one hand holding a hod heavy with mortar and then later grouting, the other smoothing it over, and then lifting the tiles into place. Shoulder, back and arm muscles have been stretched and tested beyond normal physical activities of a normally physically active man. A few days back we'd just fallen back to sleep after Riley had settled down again at 6:15, when the telephone rang, and when it was picked up, emitted that irritating sound of a fax machine.

But now, all the work has been completed. The tiles in place on the fireplace wall, and the grouting done. I'm grateful for that, it's been a bit of a nuisance having those ladders, and the two-story scaffolding set up for more than a week in our otherwise-spacious family room. I'd be sitting at the computer, busy composing something, feeling bits of mortar or grout falling about, hitting my head. Good thing my husband is so meticulous about cleaning up after himself. We managed comfortably enough, despite the localized chaos. And now it's all done, and looking quite excellent, much to his satisfaction and my admiration.

The scaffolding disassembled, placed back into the larger of our two garden sheds, the ladders taken back down to the basement, and the drop sheets shed of their detritus-burden, a bit of touch-up painting here and there, and now there is only the art pieces to be re-hung, the decorative items to be placed back on the fireplace mantle, little things like that which he will attend to. Yesterday, before the scaffolding was taken apart, we re-hung the painting my husband had done almost twenty years ago, featuring Button anxiously waiting for me and our youngest son to paddle our canoe back to shore at our camping spot at Algonquin Park.  My printer and its little storage unit will be replaced from its temporary banishment, and we're back in business.