A couple weeks ago, our oldest son asked if Sophie, the dog, could sleep in his room.

My wife and I were fine with that, of course, but with one proviso. “She can stay there if she wants to,” I said. “But I’m not locking her in your room.”

“Okay.”

We decided that Sophie would go to his room when he went to bed, and when I went to bed, I would check in on her.

The first night didn’t go so well. As soon as I opened the door, she stood up and trotted out of his room. She’s an old dog, and very set in her ways.

The next night went a little better. She still came out, but she didn’t seem quite so eager to leave. The third night, I heard soft music playing after he went to bed. I poked my head into his room and found him sitting on the floor, with her head in his lap.

“She likes the music,” he said.

“Okay. Don’t stay up too late, though.”

When I checked on them later, he was fast asleep. Sophie lifted her head to look at me, then put it back down and closed her eyes.

Since then, she has become a regular fixture in his room.

The other afternoon, a violent thunderstorms arrived at the house. It was a classic end-of-the-world kind of storm – dark skies, booming thunder, and flashing lightning. Sophie was frantic. She’s always been scared of thunder, and this one had her wide-eyes and whining.

“I’ve got this.” My oldest son ran to his room and put on her music. “Sophie,” he called. “Here, girl.”

She bolted into his room and curled up on her blanket next to his bed.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “She has a bad habit of peeing when she’s scared.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “She’ll be fine.”

He emerged from his room five minutes later. “She’s fast asleep.”

She was indeed. She slept through the storm.