Every Christmas Eve, Chester and I would watch Oliver Twist and drink hot cocoa. (Well, I had the cocoa, he wished.) I love Dickens and have so many favorites for different reasons - I still thank my 7th grade English teacher for making me read David Copperfield - but Oliver Twist was Chester's and my movie, and I called him (one of his many nicknames), "The Artful Dodger." Of course, bad Bill Sikes had the bull terrier that in Polanski's version was just like Chester (oh, those beatings- exceptionally painful, considering Chester's history) but Chester was the Artful Dodger.
He once stole a loaf of French Bread from the counter, hid it in the bedroom, then casually brought it out in into the living room a few hours later when he decided it was dinner time. Unable to look me in the eye (I photographed this entire event) he proceeded to lay on the floor with the purloined loaf and chew away.
Of course someone had to do the "They are just animals" routine with me a day after he passed. Whatever.
Chester was my guard dog. He lay on the floor outside of the shower. I never slept until I had him.
I do not sleep again.