It was day two of a three-day, three-night Murphy-sleepover. The dogs were quiet.
I surreptitiously checked to make sure that they weren't doing something that they ought not. They weren't. They were quietly lying side-be-side in the front hall sharing a less-than-palm-sized piece of rib bone; the remainder of a gift that Ray had gotten sometime in the distant past. The piece was so small that I couldn't believe they could both get their mouths on it at the same time.
Every once-in-awhile, Murphy would gain sole possession of the bone and turn her body away from the bigger dog in a miniature game of keepaway. Ray would follow her around in an attempt to get it back. Murphy would eventually take pity on the blind hound, drop it for him, and wander off. Ray would settle in for a chew, then realize that she was off doing something else, and leave the bone to go in search of her. As soon as the bone was unattended, Murphy would swoop back in, scoop it up, and start the game anew.
I found myself wondering if there could be two better friends in the world.