He goes home tonight, much to the chagrin of J, who will miss having his little buddy.
I will miss the gentle spray of spittle that hits my cheek each morning announcing Steve's need to use the facilities.
It's actually a rather considerate way to wake someone. J's approach is to barrel all 50 pounds of body weight into the floor at breakneck speed. As alarms go, Steve is more "smattering of mist off the sea," while J is more "HIT THE DECK!"
He also loves to be my TV buddy. This is sometimes tricky when the snoring gets too loud, but that is mitigated when he rests his tiny chin on my shoulder. I'm easy.
Where is J in all of this? Well, normally he's staring with desolate concern at the sofa while I pat the cushions and say, "Come on up. It's OK, you can get up here. Come on. Come on, J. You can come up. Hop up! Come on! You can come up! Aw, SKREW IT."
At which point he usually casts his fears aside and hurls himself onto the couch with an effort most would reserve for long-jump.
So I'll pack up Steve's food, and his bowl, and his dental bones, and his pig ears, and his Ernie and Spider-Man and football, and JFro will come to pick him up. Which is probably good. I think he misses her.