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Last week my hubby and I decided to move Stormy's crate, where he has slept every night since he's lived with us for the last 14 months, to the family room where the greyhounds' crates are located. We only crate the greyhounds when we leave the house; they sleep on big pillows on our bedroom floor or on the small love seat we have in one corner of the room.

Stormy, we decided, is a big boy now and can sleep on a pillow or the chair just like Coral and Dexter.

It hasn't been a really smooth transition.

For the first few nights, he kind of wandered around the room like he was looking for his bed. He turned the pillow we placed in the spot where his crate used to be upside down, looking for his bed. We reassured him everything was OK, gave him cookies and cuddles, and he seemed to be adjusting to sleeping on the floor.

On Friday night, he jumped up on the love seat, a spot that Coral normally occupies, curled up and snored all night. Life was good.

On Saturday morning, my hubby got up and let the dogs out and then came back to bed. A little while later, Coral started whining like she needed to go back outside. Since Phil had been up once already, I figured I would take her downstairs to let her out. She started to follow me into the hall, and so did Stormy.

As soon as Stormy was out of the chair, Coral darted back into the room and took his spot there. She looked at Stormy like, "Thanks for keeping it warm for me, loser" and snuggled right in.

Stormy looks at me like "Hey, what the..." and then he jumps into my now vacant space in my bed.

I got played, people. I was the loser in this round of musical chairs. In my own bedroom. During my beloved Saturday morning snooze time.

So I did what any self-respecting pack leader would do. I climbed over Stormy, got back into bed and got my last hour of Saturday sleep with a snoring pit bull beside me to keep me warm.

When I did finally make it downstairs for coffee, the cat just looked at me and shook his head in shame.