Bed Time

My dogs love bed time.

They lobby for it. Maria - Little Miss Mouth of the South - starts reminding me at least a half an hour early that bed time is coming. I can't say as I blame her, as I have sure been forgetting things lately. I support my nine dogs by making and selling fancy collars. I had an order for a collar and I knew I had enough of that particular trim to make one collar. I looked in the drawer for the trim. Couldn't find it. Huh? I knew I had enough of that trim; I was certain I had just recently had my hands on it. I searched. I tore my little sewing/computer room to shreds. That was when I noticed the package addressed to my customer. With the collar I had already made in it. So you see, you can't blame Maria for thinking she needs to remind me about bed time.

Bed time for the dogs is somewhere between nine and ten. Closer to nine on the nights where I'm home all evening. Maria will be lying on a couch in the TV room, completely snuggled under a lap quilt. I'm typing away on the computer in the next room. It's about eight-thirty, and I hear "rrruhrr" from the lap quilt. "Maria, it's not time yet," I say. Five minutes later the quilt says, "rraaahrrr rrrrr." "Hush, Maria." Four minutes later, the quilt lifts enough to reveal a darling little schnoz and I hear, "Rrahh, rrahr, rooooo." "Stop! It is not time for bed!"

Oh that really works, because "time for bed" are the magic words I say to get the whole gang to jump up and run downstairs and go out. So I've said, "time for bed" and even though it was preceded by "It's not" the contract states that if I say "time for bed" in any context what so ever it is damn well "time for bed." Consequently, eight of the nine dogs are now dancing around my tiny computer/sewing room celebrating the fact that it is, you know what time.

I would like to finish my little typing project, so I pat each one and try to put them off. "Good dogs, wonderful dogs. Oh aren't you lovely? Mmmm, would you like to lie down here on the new bed? Keep me company as I just take a moment to finish? Won't be a second, that's my sweet hearts."

Maria is having none of it. She stands facing me and shouts, "Woof. Woof. Ruff. Rrraahr, rrrrrrrr, rrrrraaah." Tail wagging like crazy, eyes bright as high beams and she's caught me in them. She bounces a little off the ground with every woof. The rest of her pack catch on to the game. They can see that she's wearing me down. Now I've got all eight of the dogs in the little sewing/computer room woofing and trying to jump on me and the two youngest start to wrestle, and I give up.

"Fine," I say. "Fine. Time for bed! Let's go out. Fat Charlie, come on!" You may have noticed that there were only eight dogs in my little room. Fat Charlie is the lone abstainer from the bed time follies. He's already curled up in his crate and he doesn't think he needs to go out, and he'd just the same stay put and wait for the snackie, thank you very much.

Yep, that's why bed time is so popular in this house: the bed time snackie. The dogs all zoom down the steep, twisting stairs and race - literally - to the kitchen door and tumble over the tops of each other to get out first. (There could be a cat or a critter of some kind outside, you never can tell.) Then they try to pee where someone else wants to pee, occasionally peeing on each other, sigh, and then they remember the whole snackie deal and now the race is on to see who can get into the house, up the same steep twisting stairs, down the hall, into our bedroom and into their crate first. And of course if poor Bill happens to be "reading" on our bed... Bill has a peculiar way of reading at night. He lies on his back, with the book face down on his stomach, his eyes closed and his mouth open, emitting a loud, operatic snore. He does a lot of "reading" in the evenings. So if he's "reading" when the dogs zoom up to our room, they are just beyond delighted to find him there, and they leap on his prostrate body (as well as his unfortunate prostate gland once in a while) and he turns a whopper snore into an "oooph" followed invariably by a Very Bad Word or twelve.

I yell, "Dogs, get off of Bill!" and they do and they each jump in their own crate. Except Very Old Dog who inhales his biscuit so he can follow me as I give each of the others their snackies just in case someone drops theirs, or my aim is off. Then he snarfs up an extra snackie for himself and is immensely satisfied at his bonus. I go to each crate after snackies are consumed and cover each dog up with their blanket, except Sam I Am and Delia who prefer to sleep nude. And I kiss every nose and tell each of them that they are ever so wonderful and I am the most fortunate human in the world.

I go back downstairs and get my laptop, and finish my little story in bed, so that Very Old Dog can settle in and not worry about where I am or if I've gotten lost.

Which is why, dear readers, it is nearly midnight and I am finally closing my laptop, kissing my sweet Old Dog on his peaceful forehead, rolling my snoring good husband onto his side, and going, at last to sleep.

Sweet dreams!

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