“Don’t even think about it.”
My husband’s order was quick and firm, his voice matching the cadence of a hard-nosed drill sergeant putting new recruits through the paces of a grueling boot camp where you pray to the deity of your choice to take you before you puke up a kidney.
But I am made of sterner stuff. My dad was a U.S. Marine and taught me never to give into the enemy.
Unless it was Mom and my turn to wash the dishes.
But this is MY house, my friends, and I’m a little higher up the food chain here.
I laughed at my husband and snorted, “Like you can stop me.”
I turned back toward the object of his discontent: the ultimately cutest of cute photos of newborn golden retriever puppies that were - hands down - the most adorable things this planet has ever, ever, ever, ever seen in the history of the world.
No, in the galaxy.
No, to infinity and beyond, my friends.
This photo goes viral and all wars would immediately cease with a gazillion people going, “Awwwww” in unity.
The skies will part. The sun will shine. It will be a serious kumbaya moment.
That, my friends, is the power of a golden retriever puppy.
But my husband put down his foot in a preemptive strike and said most eloquently, “No. More. Dogs.”
Geesh. I was just looking.
I glanced over at our three-year-old golden retriever and muttered, “Wow. Dad says you can’t meet your half-siblings.” I glared over my shoulder and added, “What a meanie.”
He glared right back at me, pointed at said dog and muttered, “How quickly you forget what THAT one did last night.”
Oh, don’t worry. I’m a woman.
We don’t forget anything.....
No one likes to be woken at 3 a.m.
No one likes a 90-pound golden retriever pouncing on her in bed at 3 a.m.
And no one likes to be yakked on at 3 a.m.
No one likes to be woken by a golden retriever pouncing on her in bed then yakked on.
At 3 a.m.
You know where I’m going with this....
It was that time of night when all is quiet and peaceful. The worries and stresses of the day have melted away into the darkness of the night, leaving one in a state of blissful surrender to relaxation and ZZZs.
And there I was. Sound asleep. Minding my own business. Wrapped in a cocoon of warm, fuzzy blankets I had carefully, methodically and strategically maneuvered to my side of the bed during the night, leaving my husband with the corner of one light-blue sheet, just enough to cover one elbow and half a dream.
Life. Was. Good.
And then - BOOM!
Out of nowhere, 90 pounds of fur launched through the darkness and landed on my torso in a scrambling mess of limbs and snout and tail as if she had lost all coordination and at least half her mind.
I couldn’t even scream.
Because, you know, that requires the ability to breathe.
I couldn’t reach out to grab for help.
Because, you know, that requires arms. Mine, of which, were currently trapped beneath the aforementioned 90 pounds of dog.
All I could do was lie there and wait for her to slide off and leave me to die in peace.
And then I heard it.
That sound every dog owner can identify three rooms away. That horrible, half-cough, half-gagging sound that means something really disgusting is about to make an appearance on your carpet.
Or, in this case, spewed ala Exorcist-style all over my face.
My eyes snapped open.
I channeled my inner Rambo and performed a half-twist, half-jackknife move that shoved the dog off my body and onto the floor.
Now was not the time for finesse.
I grabbed her collar and headed for the bedroom door and the hallway. But if the escalating sounds coming out of the dog were any indication, I didn’t have time for stairs, and making it safely to the front door was a pipe dream.
I veered off to the closest bathroom with tiled flooring and shoved her inside.
And that’s when, you know, she threw up what I assumed to be a small goat.
Oh, well. Better the floor than my face.