Life with the Apocalypse

 

The problem with going to bed with a small pink hellhound* is that you lay her down on her shelf next to your glasses, you turn the light off, you roll over and snuggle down in your pillows, and all in the same motion you continue rolling till you're facing the frelling shelf again and utterly without motive force or direction your hand reaches out, plucks her small pinkness neatly out from under your glasses and—because by this time your other arm is free too—you flick the nice pink case...