My dog and I are playing a devious game of cat and mouse. Or mouse and mutt.
No, wait. I should be the cat. Except I’m allergic to cat fur. Can you be allergic to your own hair? Is that possible? Still, I wouldn’t want to be the mouse, either. So little and squeaky — I’d feel like a Kardashian. No, thanks.
Nope, neither of the options are good. Who comes up with these games, anyway? I’ll start again.
“My dog and I are playing a devious game of rabid gangster bull elephant and albino ninja liger.”
Ahem. My dog and I are playing a devious game of rabid gangster bull elephant and albino ninja liger.
(Oh, yeah. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.)
The point is this: we’re in a standoff. It’s after midnight following a Monday, and I should be getting to bed. But if I go to bed, the dog is going to get up and sleep in my spot on the couch. Because she’s crafty, MCA, like ice is cold. She’s crafty.
Seriously, I know her M.O. She’ll lie there under a blanket on the living room floor, pretending she’s perfectly happy. She’ll even make loud snoring noises to try and make me think she’s sound asleep, that she’d never stir til morning, and why wouldn’t I toddle off to get the long night’s rest I deserve for being such a kind and gracious owner?
(Yeah. The bitch can lay it on pretty thick, when she wants something.)
See, she would never try to scale the couch when my wife or I are in the room. She knows the boundaries, and they’re very clear. Couches are for people-sitting. Dog-lying happens on the carpet, and possibly under that ratty-assed blanket that smells like terrier farts and horse breath.
Am long as I’m here, the couch belongs to me. As soon as I leave, those boundaries leave with me, apparently, and the mutt clambers up into my assprint for a nap. We can’t stop her. She can’t be stopped. This pooch has had three paws in the grave, and still managed to climb through a goddamned jungle gym of furniture and sleep on the couch.
So the only way to keep her down is to be on the couch myself. Hence I find myself, several ticks past bedtime, locked in a glacial-speed battle with Princess Paws down there. It’s not as though we’re jousting, or sparring, or anything else. To the untrained eye, it would look like I’m writing and she’s soundly sleeping. And occasionally panting.
Also, farting more frequently than an unconscious animal has any right to do. Doesn’t metabolism slow down when you’re sleeping? Or even pretending to sleep? If the do farted any more often when she was awake, she’d be hovering a foot off the ground on an airy cushion of industrial chicken runoff and half-digested rawhide. Jesus.
And so we battle, more or less indirectly. My weapons are unquenchable stubbornness and chronic insomnia. Her arsenal’s filled with infinite patience and room-emptying air biscuits. Mostly, it’s a stalemate. With emphasis on ‘stale’.
Still, I do have to work in the morning. As in, later this morning, which is not the way I’d planned things. I should probably hit the sack, as of an hour and a half ago. But if I do, that mangy canine will be snuggled on this couch cushion faster than I can say, “I swear, I’ll sell you to an Indonesian falafel shack.” And who knows what slobber-jawed ass-licking incontinent horror she’ll unleash on it in my absence? I shudder to imagine.
And that’s why I’m sitting here in the wee hours of the morning, bitching to you about it. It’s only a matter of time until she falls asleep or morning is so close around the corner that my wife will get up and shoo the dog off my roost. I’m not saying I’m that stubborn — but I do enjoy sitting on a cushion where I know exactly what bodily fluids are — or aren’t — present, where they didn’t come from, and how long it’s been since something unspeakable was deposited there.
(This is why, for instance, I won’t sit at a booth in Denny’.
Oh, you think that’s different. And you’re right. It’s worse.)
So the game continues, as the clock ticks away. I’m getting pretty tired, and the dog does sound — and smell — like she’s in a deep funky sleep, so probably it’s safe to hit the sack. Maybe. Very probably maybe, somewhat.
Ah, I’ll give it ten more minutes. What’s a few less minutes of sleep, compared to being the master of my own furniture for a night? Long live rabid gangster bull elephant!Permalink | No Comments