My wireless goes out and I swear softly and pad downstairs to inspect the router and the phone plug. This involves leaning past the furry curl of dog, a Garmr in his Gnípahellir waiting patiently for Ragnarök in the hope that it will involve running with mouth agape, scooping up forbidden edibles when the doors of the kitchen cabinets are flung wide. I peel up the edge of his plush bed, but he does not stir. Only his ears flick about, and only for a moment.
The ears are always up, whether the beast is dreaming with eyes rolled back or trying to charm a roast fowl out of my hands through the sheer intensity of his gaze, whether sirens are dopplering past outside or not. I do not know what secret channel he is tuning in to. It is evident, however, that his connection is more reliable than mine.