Rhubarb is a quiet, easygoing fellow. I dislike the idea of accusing anyone of laziness, but if the word applies to anyone in this household, it’s him.

He’d be quite content to sleep for twenty-three hours, have a snack, and go back to sleep. Assuming, of course, that he could grab his favorite spot: Maggie’s pillow.

Sometimes it’s a throne.

More often, though, he uses it as She-Who-Always-Walks-With-Tail-High intended: a snuggly backrest.

Alas, some days he doesn’t move fast enough when the alarm goes off, and someone else claims the coveted spot.

What’s worse, they don’t appreciate it properly. ‘Nuki completely fails to understand how the pillow is supposed to be used, no matter how Rhubarb tries to explain it.

(I hesitate to suggest it to the bereft orange fellow, but I suspect a certain amount of willful ignorance is involved. There’s a reason why “Thugbutt” is one of ‘Nuki’s nicknames.)

So, when Rhubarb gets aced out of his spot, he generally settles for the next best thing: my pillow.

It’s obviously not as comfy, and it certainly doesn’t smell like Maggie’s hair, but it’s acceptable.

And, after all, snuggling with one’s siblings is its own reward.