Garry goes to bed before me because he likes to settle into bed and watch (using headphones) old black & white classic movies — and westerns. Crime movies. The stuff I’m not usually interested in watching. This is fine because I come in later, usually after writing a piece which seems to be a late night event these days. But I also defer going to bed because I’m not ready for the battle to come.
You see, when Bonnie was old and sick, we let her sleep in the bedroom. Not on the bed, because she was too short-legged to jump off safely, but on a bed next to the bed. By then Gibbs had died and Duke was tending to Bonnie’s every need. He was truly in her service. After she passed, Duke gradually has developed his own swagger. One day, being as he can make the jump, he decided he was going to sleep with us. It was the last non-hairy place in the house. Now, everything is hairy. It’s a little better with his coat clipped, but there’s a lotta dog hair floating around this house.
The hair gets into everything. As one well-known Westminster Kennel Club announcer used to says, “Dog hair is a condiment in this house.”
Wise words. He kept a lot of dogs so I have to assume he could not sleep with all of them. Honestly, I really didn’t want to sleep with the Duke. I find it hard to position my back so I can sleep. For a 35-pound dog, the Duke manages to take up and astounding amount of bed. I know when I come into the bedroom, this is the arrangement I will see.
I go into the bedroom. The Dukes eyes follow me around. Garry is smirking because he SAID having the dog in bed with us would be a problem. I change into a nightgown, brush my teeth, take the last medication of the day, adjust the bed and look at the Duke. He hasn’t moved and is still bisecting the bed. I look at him and say: “Duke, move over.”
He rolls his eyes at me, those big googly eyes, and he moves an inch or two over towards Garry. He sighs deeply. The things people force him to do! I look at him and say in my sterner voice: “Duke! You ARE going to move.”
He looks at me. I can see from his eyes how betrayed he feels. He moves over and curls up at the end of the bed pressing against Garry’s feet. “Ha,” I think. “Smirk now!” Duke sighs again. He is being harassed and wounded. I think he will need his own shrink to help him deal with the pressure of having to move over in the bed.
When Duke writes his biography, I think it will be a tragedy of faithless humans forcing him to eat DOG FOOD and MOVE OVER on the bed.