Dogs in the bed. I walk into my bedroom, snoring, in stereo. Some legs straight up, some legs sideways. Crowding the pillows, laid up in the crooks of our legs. Shifting all night long. Don’t get up for any reason because the whole pack is on the hunt.
How can a king-size bed feel so small? When it’s time for clean sheets, that’s time for celebration. We’ve lost ownership of the bed.
Come to think of it, we’ve given up almost the entire house. Before sitting anywhere, I check to see if that spot is taken. There may be a dog perched on the back of the sofa looking out, on guard.
They follow me, staring at me. Reminding me that I need to do something for them. If I could focus my attention on one solitary thing like that, who knows what I could have accomplished.
I thought I was the head of the household. I know where I stand. I feel guilty if I eat before they do. Can’t go out for dinner until the dogs have dined.
Home from work, may I enter, your majesties? An eruption occurs. Zoomies, go find a favorite toy, maybe a quick wrestle. For a moment I think I’ve been missed. Isn’t there something I need to do?
Leave a Reply