The Dog Stealer

Copyright aaron paul lazar 2010, all rights reserved

Dear Daughter,


I don’t mean to do it. It’s not like I use beef-flavored deodorant or hide doggie treats under my mattress. Nor do I blow the silent whistle every night to get them to pile onto my bed. They just want to sleep with me. All three of them.

I don’t call them upstairs. I don’t pat the mattress and make kissy noises. In fact, I hope they decide to stay with you, dear daughter, instead of me, because all night long I’m pinned beneath furry masses, desperately trying to find a spot for my knees and feet.

It’s been like this since you moved home. And I wish it was different!

I wake up ten times during the week with sore shoulders and hips, needing to flip. Amber lays like a lump on my feet, not next to them, her fifteen pounds feels like fifty. Balto curls beside me, his spine pushing me sideways so that I have about ten inches of mattress. And little Domino hops from side to side each time I turn, jumping into the cave of my knees with the alacrity of a circus dog.

I try to move Amber from my legs – she doesn’t budge. I have to gently pick her up and slide her lumpy little body sideways. Quickly, very quickly, I need to move and reposition, but usually she finds the spot before me and I need to either give in or move her again.

It’s not the ideal sleeping condition, for sure. Okay, so they keep me warm on really cold nights. But for me, they’re all Three Dog Nights, whether it’s frigid February or sweltering summer.

Anyway, dear daughter, sorry about being the dog stealer. It sure wasn’t intentional. Until we can convince the dogs otherwise, I think I need a bigger bed.

 ***

Note: Photo above is my grandson Julian with Balto when he was a pup - love this picture and couldn't resist using it. ;o)