Monday, January 7, 2013

Low Down, Dirty Dog In My Sheets

"What do mean, the dog said you couldn't sleep there anymore?"
Afternoon Readers,

You know what my favorite part of the day is?

Besides the kids going to bed.

Yes, drinking my token beer before jumping on Twitter is great, but besides that.

No, no, no. You're right, trying to reach that one spot on your back, with a loofa, while singing Hall and Oats in a hot shower is wonderful, but still off the mark.

I'll answer, "What is Climbing into My Warm Bed," for the win, Alex. Who, me? You mean I just one fifty-thousand dollars? Do you know what that can buy, Trebek? Do you? You do. Well, I'll tell you what I'm going to do. March out and buy the best sheets on the market 1,000,000 thread count. That's what I'm going to do. And maybe a new bra."

But it wouldn't matter if I could buy the most luxurious sheets on the market, Readers, because someone in this house doesn't care about my sheets. Even if I imported a bed set woven by the most talented, ambidextrous, confusingly-able lemurs on this planet, Flea would ruin it for me like he always does.

Kind of like that roommate you invited over who probably won't ever move out, I don't mention the dog much, only because we're still coming to terms with each other, and I've been secretly hoping I'd find his shaving kit gone, the kennel cleaned up, and the Guns N' Roses t-shirt thrown in the trash on his way out.

But, no. He's still here. Quieter? Yes, but only because he's crafted a new bag of tricks surely to be employed for the rest of his life here. Our nights go something like this:

*Stretching* "Honey, I think I'll go to bed. For it is in my bed, where I can find peace, relaxation, and the body indention I've been working diligently on for close to four years. Which, as we all know, is the amount of time it takes a crack to turn into a pothole."

*Sprints up the stairs and before light can be turned on, a fat slithering sound of a Boxer wiggling his way off the bed can be heard* "Well, we meet again."

No answer. This is standard procedure, as he never bothers to defend himself, and uses the fact that he's a dog to try and convince me he's an idiot.

But he is not.

"I feel as though we've had this talk before, but could you kindly stop sleeping in my spot?"

He raises one eyebrow, as Boxers tend to do when they feel you have no point.

"You know how I feel about it. Last Saturday, after I got up, there was so much hair stuck to my pajamas, it looked like I'd rolled over a dachshund and killed it."

Silence.

"I really hate it when you pretend like your looking at your cuticles, when, in actuality, you'd prefer I change the subject or move out."

Slowly, he slinks past me. But, as you know, he's a hundred-some-odd-pound Boxer, so it's more like he walks past and slams me into the wall.

"As much as I love these fickle games we play, I bid you good day, sir."

This sort of thing will go on until one of us moves out or I decide to sleep in the kennel.

...and with a couple of Pottery Barn curtains, I could totally live in there.


Until Next Time, Readers!