That sneaky jerk. He totally knew what he was doing.
It started in the early morning hours, probably 4:30 or 5:00, just a few hours off of when Lance and I would normally wake up. They weren’t long, drawn out, high-pitched whines, just these little squeaky sighs.
“Aww, Dads,” they would suggest. “Can’t you, uh, just let me sleep in the bed? C’mon.”
Ripley had been sleeping in
his crate his house, after a few rambunctious overnight incidents in his youth, which included eating $70 worth of Dolly Parton merchandise. And due to the petite quality of our apartment, Ripley’s house is in the bedroom (already something of a mood killer.) For months, he’d been a “good boy,” heading into his house at bedtime and sleeping through until 6:30 in the morning.
Then something must have happened. It began right around the time that we started allowing him up on the living room furniture (basically because we’re lazy).
He’d start quietly whimpering at 5:00, then 4:00, then 2:00 AM, and since (again) we’re lazy, we’d reach over, unlatch the door to his house, and Ripley’d curl up at the foot of the bed.
“Should we just let him sleep in the bed? He’s over a year old now,” Lance and I would ask aloud, both thinking the same thing but wanting the other to validate it.
So we let Ripley the smelly old dog in the bed. And he was quick to take advantage of the situation. Let me diagram this for you:
Once he was able to sleep in the bed full-time, Ripley sauntered his furry ass up to the head of the bed and plopped down right in between the pillows. “Aww, cute!” we said at first, until he’d start scratching himself in the middle of the night, or pressing his back paws into the small of your back.
Ripley loves to sleep on his side with all legs extended, effectively pushing both of us out of the bed. His 40-plus pounds of goldendoodle are also effing rock-solid. Unlike the cat, who’s a malleable ball of fat who just shifts with you as you move throughout the night, Ripley is just a lump who does not budge, weighing down the covers as the same time.
And just recently, our bedroom A/C unit has been on the fritz (is this a derogatory term for Germans?), so we’ve had to leave the bedroom door open to get some circulation from the living room. This means that now both the dog and the cat have free reign over the bed. Kitty, who’s been on mouse duty in the living room for weeks, just can’t get over being back in the bed: she cries loudly at night while sitting right on top of our chests, then proceeds to launch herself from the bed onto the windowsill. Repeatedly. “MRORRWWW. MROOW? MRRROOOWWW ROOW ROOW!”
Last week, I had to basically apologize to my boss for being so worthless at work. “I’m so sorry,” I’d mumble, the dark circles I inherited from my father just bolder and blacker. “There aren’t enough K-Cups in the world to wake me up right now.”
Lance and I have given up restful sleeping for two animals. ANIMALS.
I can’t imagine how you people with kids do it.