Two Dogs, One Bed, No Dignity

 

Two Dogs, One Bed, No Dignity

I woke up at three AM, which is not unusual. At my age, the bladder rules. It was time to take a bathroom break, return to bed, and then think of something boring until I conk out again. That’s normal. What is not normal, however, is what I saw when I turned over and opened my eyes.

Once they focused, there it was, no more than six inches away. I was staring at the business end of my dog, Roscoe. He was lying between me and my wife - and believe me, she had a much better view than I did. I felt like a puppy proctologist.

Properly startled and disgusted, I quickly got up and made my pit stop. Upon returning to the bed, I discovered that Roscoe had moved, claiming my cherished sleeping territory. I suppose he thought that possession is nine-tenths of the law. However, since he doesn’t pay the mortgage, I whispered in my library voice, “Roscoe, move over.”

He lifted his head, looked at me like I had just suggested rearranging the furniture during a church service, and then calmly put his head back down. Unceremoniously dissed by a dog.

Undaunted, I put both hands under his body and gently flipped him like a 50-pound omelet until I carved out just enough space to lie down. Predictably, this commotion woke up his sister Reese, who decided this was the perfect time to get up, turn in circles, sigh, and flop down in the exact spot I was about to claim.

It should come as no surprise to anyone who has dogs that bedtime in our house has the feel of a home invasion. We have two pups, so every night I’m outnumbered and end up negotiating for space in my own bed. It’s like trying to get on a crowded elevator.

Since I am the last one to turn in, by the time I get to bed, my wife and the dogs are already in place. When I say “in place,” I mean fully committed. My canines have been there all day. While I’ve been out contributing to society, those two have been at home running a bed and breakfast - meaning they go back to bed right after they eat breakfast.

So when I get ready for bedtime, there’s no sense that they are “sharing” anything. No, sir. I am a late arrival to something that is already underway.

I can tell by the look they give me. It’s not unfriendly—it’s like, “Oh good, you’re here. Try not to mess this up.”

At first, it looks manageable. Reese curls up at my feet like a little angel. Roscoe finds a spot between me and my wife. I think, “Well now, this might not be so bad.”

That is a big mistake. Dogs do not stay where you put them. Dogs expand. They stretch out in ways that would impress a yoga instructor. Roscoe starts out the size of a throw pillow and, over the course of the night, somehow becomes the length of a canoe. Reese begins sleeping in a tidy little ball, only to morph into a furry boulder by morning. It’s like they’re conducting a slow-motion land grab.

Next thing I know, I have been contorted into a shape no chiropractor would approve of. One leg bent, one leg straight, one arm pinned, the other hanging off the side of the bed like I’m signaling for help.

And heaven forbid if I try to move.

I think dogs have a sixth sense about that. You can be dead asleep, not bothering anybody, but the second you even think about rolling over, they beat you to the punch. And dogs don’t simply roll over. It’s more of a repositioning with intention. It’s like they’re reading my mind and cutting me off at the pass.

I lie there, trying to process how my life brought me to this moment. I consider my options, which are limited. Perhaps I could nudge the dog, but that might trigger a full-body repositioning—which means I could find myself hanging halfway off the mattress, flapping like a sheet on a clothesline. So I just stay still and stare at the ceiling, accepting the circumstances and questioning my judgment.

And then morning comes. My dogs stretch like they’ve just completed a spa treatment, and they look at me with loving satisfaction. Like, “That was great. Same time tonight?”

And here’s the part that doesn’t make any sense.

I say yes. 

Because somewhere between the paw in my ribs, the loss of personal space, and the late-night…view, there’s something about having them there. They are family, part of who we are.

And tonight, just like every other night, I will climb back into the bed—which is technically mine—and try to get a good night’s sleep in a place where, deep down, we all know…we’re just guests.