You’re not going to believe this, but I have a dog in my bed as I write this. A full-grown, hundred-pound, paws the size of pumpkins, loud snoring, number-two-eating coonhound. Her name is Ellie Mae, and her hindparts are on my pillow.
I don’t know when this behavior began, but it’s unjust and I won’t stand for it. I’m an American, for crying out loud. I pay my taxes like everyone else.
When Jamie and I first welcomed Ellie into our home, I made one ceremonious law. And I quote: “No canine abiding within this domicile shall besmirch or slumber upon my bed.” I said it in King James English to make it more official. Ellie swore on the Oxford Dictionary she would only wallow in backyards or piles of particularly exotic smelling excrement. She lied.
But before you take Ellie’s side, you should know she already has privileges.
For example: Ellie Mae eats better than most Iraqi oil princes. Her daily feasts make my TV dinners look like Army rations. She eats Lamb and rice for breakfast — I’m not making this up, we prepare actual lamb. For lunch: crockpot beef and potatoes. Mid-afternoon snack: toilet paper. For supper: a bacon cheeseburger, chili cheese fries, and an ice cold Budweiser.
That’s not all, Ellie also owns real estate. You heard me right. In 2009, we began construction on Ellie’s one-bedroom, no bath, colonial revival cottage in our backyard. She doesn’t even use it, she rents it to a family of squirrels who keep late hours and blast loud rock music.
And now she’s laying smack-dab on my mattress.
You should hear this animal snore. It sounds exactly like she’s just eaten a whole Birkenstock. She has the gall to carry on like she owns the place. As if our entire household revolves around her wide-mouthed grin and skillet-sized paws. Well, I’m not going to tolerate it. I don’t give a cuss how cute she is. This is my house, dammit. And I don’t have time for this, I’ve got more important things to be doing today.
Like cooking ten pounds of lamb.