Maid, please make up my room, and pronto!

No Relais & Chateaux property has been so carefully cleaned, and I am nothing less than chagrined.

After all, it's my room, no?
Apparently not.

My room has practically been under hermetic seal, awaiting the arrival of Mom's cousins, who are bringing their daughter to Boston College. Meanwhile, where exactly am I supposed to sleep? I have my routines. Bedtime, I'm already there, stretched out on my shearling. My beanbag is more like a daybed, and while it's perfectly comfortable for a daytime snooze lasting several hours, it's too small for a proper nighttime sleep.

Each morning at 5 I head to the chair in mom and dad's room so they don't lose any of their waking moments praising my handsomeness—they can see me lounging there as soon as they wake up. It was one of those early mornings when Mom took advantage of my momentary absence from my room to swoop up the bedding and erect the barricade.

So, what's the deal: am I part of the family, or not? It's Tucker's room, not the guest room, I silently plead. I hang my head in extreme moroseness. She ignores me. I whine, reproachfully. Then I take my case to the closed door and stand immovable. I am ignored. It wasn't so long ago that I was homeless, so I'm still appreciative. I'm very appreciative. I really appreciate my bed. In fact, I appreciate all of them. The beds, I mean. Cousins, too, I guess.