Thursday, April 9, 2009

Let Sleeping Dogs Lay

If you have a dog, you know that they are an animal with no respect or regard for personal space.  For some reason, they love to do everything on you.  Not three feet away from you, not in the next room, not even near your feet, but actually, physically on you.  

For example, nothing beats waking up in the early morning to Mr. Mop's ass on my face as he bites Brooklyn's head in the first wrestling match of the day.  Why?  Why do they insist on playing ON TOP OF ME, especially at seven in the morning?

Or I can be reading my book, and Brooklyn ever-so-not-gently will walk across my stomach and plant his body across my book.  The best is when I am working and, like a cat, he decides to walk across my keyboard and sit down.  

I suppose it's sweet that they want to be so close to their humans, but really?  Really?  Do they really need to turn in circles for fifteen minutes and then decide the best angle for sleeping is wedging their bum between your chin and shoulder?  Mop seems to think so.

Neither of my dogs are supposed to be allowed on the furniture or on the bed.  But obviously if Mop is nestling his furry bottom near my face, he is clearly on the bed.  I can't help it!  With the Engineer away at school it is so comforting to have my furry little companions keeping my feet (or chin) warm.

The strange thing is:  two dogs weighing a total of 22lbs HOG the bed!!!  When I sleep with the Engineer I not only hog the bed, but the covers.  I yank them away and roll over them, creating a cocoon of warmth while he is left at the edge of the bed with a pillowcase.  When we first started dating, he would wake me in the middle of the night to ask me to move over.  My reply?  'I can see the edge of the bed!'  Well, I could.  And if I could see the edge of the bed, then I clearly did not have any room to move over.

I didn't believe I was bed hogger until one night when he took a photo.  And there I was, sprawled over the entire queen, with my head to the side and mouth gaping open.  Beautiful.  

I suppose now he just sort of deals with it, I still roll over the blankets, and I still can see the edge of the bed.  He's tried to move me, and I believe I smacked him.

So how is it, when I share a bed with an eight pound yorkie and a fourteen pound asshole, I wake up in the morning at the very edge of the bed, with my body contorted in a weird angle so that Brooklyn can nestle beneath my knees and Mr. Mop is sprawled spread eagle over the left side of the bed?  

I am pretty sure that is wrong.

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