It’s that wonderful time of year when dog owners all across this nation pause and ask themselves, “Why am I sleeping on my own God forsaken sofa?”
Take me, for instance. This morning, I woke up on a couch with a stiff back and a TV remote lodged in a delicate region.
This is unfair. I’m a grown man. I shouldn’t be sleeping on a sofa when I have an expensive bed.
A bed which my coonhound, Ellie Mae, stole from me.
I remember the day I bought my bed at a mattress designer store. A salesman with a skinny mustache, who kept using the words “in-CREDIBLY affordable memory-foam” every few sentences, sold it to me.
We agreed on an incredibly affordable mattress-mortgage with zero down and one hundred forty-three percent interest; he delivered twelve hundred pounds of memory-foam to my doorstep.
But it was worth it. The mattress pamphlets explained that this product would eliminate back pain and leave me looking like the leading man from a Just For Men Shampoo commercial.
But when the bed entered my home, I never got to use it. Ellie Mae leapt onto the mattress, walked in circles for eight minutes, collapsed, and has not moved in a decade.
This makes restorative sleep impossible. Because sleeping beside a restless coonhound is like sharing a sleeping bag with three Harlem Globetrotters.
When Ellie Mae hits deep sleep, she begins whimpering, twitching, flailing, and snoring. And there goes the night.
When you consider these facts together, a very frustrating question comes to my mind, as I’m sure it does to most non-dog owners: “What are three Harlem Globetrotters doing in a sleeping bag?”
Anyway, when a dog overtakes your mattress, it’s for life. There’s nothing you can do about it.
Last night, I tried to scoot my dog’s ninety-pound body from my spot. After trying for ten minutes, I only managed to nudge her two inches.
She didn’t even quit snoring. Instead, she began emitting gaseous vapors which were strong enough to shatter most residential light bulbs.
Thus, I grabbed my pillow, hung my head, and walked to the couch. I laid flat on my back. And even though I hardly believe it, I actually fell asleep.
I slept so hard that I dreamed. I dreamed about life. About middle school.
There I was. Middle-school algebra. My teacher—a woman old enough to predate ketchup—spoke to me in a nasal voice.
She walked closer. She removed her thick-rimmed glasses. She glared. She took me by the wrist. Then, unable to control her feminine sensibilities any longer, she aggressively licked my hand between the fingers.
I awoke to a coonhound, licking me.
It was two in the morning. My hand was sticky and smelled like a toilet brush.
Then, my dog crawled onto my sofa. She curled beside me. She is the warmest thing you’ll ever feel.
She fell asleep with her head beside mine. She has a gentle way of breathing that makes me sorry I never had kids.
I should’ve moved back to my bedroom. After all, my expensive mattress was finally dog-free. But I didn’t want to leave her, you see.
I love this animal with all my heart.