My great-grandmother Rosa advised the women of my family to marry a man whose face you will enjoy waking up and seeing for the rest of your life. Not that the content of his character and other good qualities weren't important, but that the thrill of seeing that face when you open your eyes is part of what keeps the romance alive.
There is nothing thrilling about waking up next to a Basenji. It's roasting, pushy, on-the-edge-sleeping, paw-in-the-face, farting, snarking, snoring, quacking, squeaking, demanding. Yet, when Denny Basenji does sleep with me, I sleep deeply and soundly because he is my sleeping pill.
Oh, I could go on about the oxytocin release from the constant contact he insists on, the deep relaxation of listening to his breathing, or the quiet contentment in the moment he inspires. So really, the sleeping part isn't the problem.
It's the waking up part.
Neither of us are morning...er...people. I'm not civilized until coffee. He's either lazy or frantic to pee. If he wants love, I get a paw in the face to wake me up and pet him. If he wants to be left alone, he gurgles and growls under the covers while pushing at me with all four paws until I get up and leave him to donut back up into a little ball. If he wants to be walked, he jumps on top of me, walks over me and paws at me until I get up.
As soon as his needs have been attended to, the little bastard goes back to sleep. I, however, am up for good.
And yet, I still love waking up to his fuzzy little face.