It was like sleeping with a grizzly bear.
You know, without that whole fear of being eaten alive kinda thing.
I shoved an elbow and growled, “Move over.”
“I’m already on the edge. In more ways than one,” my husband growled back.
The love between us (along with the 60-pound golden retriever “puppy” ironically named Bear) was skating on thin ice.
And when said Bear rolled over onto her back, stuck four fuzzy paws in the air and dropped her golden head on my pillow (and half my face, by the way), I’d had it.
Take my blankets. OK.
Take my spot. I can deal.
But mess with my pillow, and you’re gonna find yourself homeless. Or at the very least - bed-less.
I shot up, pointed a finger at the corner of the room and ordered, “Get down!”
Suddenly the dog who can pinpoint a tomcat from six houses over had apparently gone stone deaf.
I shoved her fuzzy rump and shouted, “Out!”
She stretched long legs into the air, lifted her tail and swatted it back down onto the mattress. Then commenced snoring.
This. This right here is why people buy ankle-biter dogs the size of a pot roast.
Pot roast doesn’t steal half the bed during the night.
“What is her deal?” I asked my husband in exasperation. “Every day. Every. Friggin. Day. At 5 a.m. She jumps on the bed, wiggles her way between us and goes back to sleep. She’s the alarm clock from hell.”
He rolled over, threw me a dirty look in the dark and answered, “Why are you talking to me like I don’t already know that?” He swung out an arm, “I’m lying right here, you know.”
Ignoring him (as usual) I poked the dog in the side and muttered, “Move it. Out. Down. And whatever other preposition I’m forgetting at the moment.”
I reached a hand under her back to give her extra motivation and received a low grrrrrr in response.
Flashes of grizzly tore through my mind, and I decided to live to fight another day.
Later, my husband spotted me curled up on the couch, reading.
He leaned over to read the title, “German for Dummies.” He raised an eyebrow and pointed at the cover.
I shrugged, pointed at the dog and said, “She doesn’t appear to understand English very well, so I thought I’d take a stab at German.”
The phone rang the next day while I was at work.
Without a “hey, baby, whatcha doing?” or even a “hello” my husband proceeded to tell me - in a rather loud voice, if the ringing in my eardrum was any indication - what he’d come home to at lunch time.
“She chewed on the corner of the grandfather clock. You know, the one your dad made?”
What? The clock we wrapped up tighter than King Tut’s booty in order to transport it from my mom’s house to ours and still ended up disrupting the mechanism so it only chimed at 2:47 in the friggin’ morning, trying desperately to keep from taking a baseball bat to it while feeling guilty about moving it in the first place only to break it because my dad crafted the thing with his own blood, sweat, tears, swear words and 47 cases of Budweiser?
I vaguely recall it. I cringed and answered, “So how bad is it? Did she just take a nibble or did she go full beaver on the thing?”
“Well, you can definitely tell she tried to eat it for a snack,” he snarled. “Plus, she ate a book.”
Uh-oh. Not quite the way a dog should get a little extra fiber in her diet. “Which one?” I asked.
“Does it matter?” he asked.
“Well, I’m kinda curious,” I said. “Is she a Harry Potter kinda girl or did she go straight for the Mark Twain?”
“I don’t care, and I gotta get back to work,” he snarked back.
“Why are you barking at me?” I sniped in return (two can play this game). “I’m not the one who ate it.”
“I’m not barking at you,” he responded.
“Yes. You are,” I countered. “No. I’m not,” he answered.
Man, marriage is the BEST!
“Tell you what,” I offered. “When I get home I’ll sit her down and read her the riot act.” I paused. “But I’ll probably have to do it in German.”