War Zone

"Man your battle stations!"  It has reached an alarming state.  I'm afraid to sit down anymore.  The minute I do, I'm immediately under attack from both sides and my lap is the desired "high ground" that must be occupied at all costs.  Bessie Anne, normally a well-trained, well-behaved dog, no longer takes no for an answer and pushes, shoves, and struggles to climb up into the chair.  A solid fifty pounds, when she's in my lap I am nailed in place.  Celeste goes for a sneak attack, approaching from the rear, springing up over my shoulder and claiming whatever space is not taken up by dog.  This does not leave much room for me.  Thankfully, neither of them has a flag to plant or I'd be poked with holes like a sieve.  I'd like to think that both sides just want my company or possibly the warmth of togetherness, but it's probably species competition.  Unless he were to sit on my head, Ralph is odd man out.  He is possibly the strategist, directing the occupying forces from his bunker under the dining room table, safely behind the lines and ensconced on the one chair with a cushion.  Squooshed flat and immobile, it's difficult to work on The Project unless I've shown some forethought and gathered all materials nearby beforehand.  This is not always the case and The Project comes to a screeching halt until a truce is called.  It's not easy being a living war zone.