NG5 Arnold April/May 2022

No, No, No. Not that kind of tale!!!
I’m talking about dogs in the bedroom…something
that was never on my wish list. My bedroom was
my sanctuary, whereas Gary was all for sharing. It’s
a personal choice and I know some of you will be
horrified at the thought, while others wonder what
all the fuss is about. Anyhow, I was overruled and
now share my bedroom (and King size bed) with
three hairy, annoying and often smelly males.
The dogs do have their own beds – and they usually
start the night sleeping in them. But once we’re
fast asleep, with the stealth of a cat burglar, they
climb onto the bed. Quite often one of us will wake
up unable to move our legs. After establishing that
we’re not paralysed from the waist down, we try and
shift them. No matter how much you try they won’t
budge. How they become twice the weight at night
is a mystery.
Just to be clear, they are not allowed actually in the
bed. Come on, we do have some standards! So how
is it that when I get a rare opportunity to actually
stretch my legs out, all I can feel is grit? Having
sand between my toes when I’m not on a beach isn’t
great.
To be fair, 80% of the time they are no problem.
They find a gap, get in it and everyone sleeps
happily ever after. Apart from when they don’t.
That’s when the fun starts.
It becomes a battle of the wills. Who can fake sleep
the longest and ignore the scratching at the door,
the tippy tappy claws as they trot around the room,
the paws on the arms, the quiet barking that gets
louder and louder.
The
Bedroom
Tale
To be fair, I am pretty good at it and usually win.
Fake snoring and a bit of sleep talking usually
does the trick. I can hear Gary huffing and puffing
and eventually, because he is basically a kind and
conscientious pet owner and I am not, he gets up
and takes them down to the garden. The finale
to my performance is to act really surprised the
following morning when Gary is moaning and
cussing. Like you didn’t hear a thing…
As for romance, forget it. Having a hairy mutt giving
you evils is about as big a passion killer as you can
get. Not always a bad thing…
Now let’s talk about bones. Raw, bloody, grotty
bones. We used to give the dogs the occasional
bone as a treat. A normal dog would take his bone
off and spend hours gnawing away at it in doggy
bliss.
Not Herbie. He has no idea what to do with it, so
he panics and buries it outside. Then hours later it
turns up. Under Gary’s pillow. Raw meat, caked in
soil. Who wouldn’t want that waiting for them when
they go to bed?
We do like to have the odd weekend away in a dog
friendly cottage. The only problem is that often
these little places only have a double bed – so by
the end of the night one of us has usually rolled
off the edge and the other one feels like they have
gone ten rounds with Tyson Fury. The dogs are fine
though. Well rested and raring to go. And the way
they look at you…like, what’s all the fuss about??
Just tickle my belly and stop moaning.
© Ali Wale