Bed, or dinghy?

Once again this is them, thwarting my attempts to make the bed. I am trying to tidy, so that I can go out of town tomorrow with less psychic and literal clutter to deal with when I get back.

They cluster on the old sheet as I bunch up one corner and then another, following it like a square of safety. I learned to take off half the old sheet, and put on half the new one, so they could have a bridge of sorts, during the process. Otherwise taking one chihua off the bed and the next, with the previous jumping back up there, is a lesson in futility.

I suppose I could close them all out into the hallway, with the door shut, but well, they look so concerned, and desperate, to not touch the floor, but be on the throne of all dog beds.

Here they are again; I just changed the bed. See how they look ruffled, worried about the whole thing?

I know how they feel, though. It's like when I have been looking forward to a comfy and deep nap when I get home and someone outside, down the street, decided instead that this is the exact hour that they need to use a chain saw or a lawn mower or work on their decrepit car. The bed sits there, as always, ready for those ready for slumber, and I am denied. And it hurts. How could I do this to my beloveds, as well? Oh, Universe, they implore, Oh!