Spoiled Rotten

After successfully reaching the bottom of a couple of bottles of wine last night I ran straight into the dog bed in our room. Now today in addition to the marching band playing its opus across my temples, I am also semi-limping around the office with a giant raised bruise on the top of my foot. When I explained the injury to a coworker she asked “The dog bed is hard?” Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and our dog has, not just one, but three beds.

There is the poofy downstairs bed for during the daylight hours when he must be locked in the kitchen to avoid further damage to our windowsills. When anyone so much as breathes in the direction of our house he goes into his rabid-dog-biting-windows-and-jumping-up-on-glass routine. We are partially to blame for the aggression. He was over a year when we snipped him. The rest of the aggression can be blamed on two very evil children who poked sticks at him through an iron gate when we were living with a friend. Looking back I should have poked their beady eyes out.

The wood bed I broke my foot on is upstairs. It has what every dog needs; a head board! My partner didn’t think the mattress that is made to fit the bed looked comfortable enough so she bought him a smaller but softer version (with his name embroidered on the side). Hard to believe but they don’t make wood dog beds as sturdy as those for human slumber. Every night as he spins around working himself into sleep position the beds makes the loudest creaks and pops.

The third bed, which is technically more of a furry fleece mat, rests on the floor right next to the world’s loudest dog bed. Best of all for him though is that he is going to his girlfriend’s tonight and will be sleeping on her mother’s bed.