Thursday, 2 January 2014

The Puppy Pile: The snore of the crowd

I rolled over in bed last night, and my foot landed on a wet spot.
Normally, in a loving adult relationship, this would be seen as a good thing.
Alas, neither of the adults could be held responsible.
Earlier, Sophie had been running in and out of the bedroom and decided it was too cold to go out, so she left me a nice warm present which quickly turned to an icy cold and revolting dagger on which I placed my right foot.
So there I was, half asleep and too tired to change the sheets, too kind to wake Scott who was snoring on the other side of the mattress. There are times like these when I wish we were characters on one of those TV Land programs where couples slept in two separate beds. At least there would be a warm place in another bed whenever something awful this way comes.
So I was awake and annoyed at one thirty, which is always a dangerous time to be awake. Mid-morning wakeage often means that the night will be long and sleep will be fitful, not at all eased by the acapella group with whom I am currently rooming, none performing in harmony as it turns out.
When you live with pugs, you learn to live with snoring. It's what they do with their soft palettes and absence of nose cartilage. At times, the snoring can be almost restful, rhythmic, like whales burbling but not last night. Gordie was in the grip of ragged breath, brought on by a variety of geriatric conditions the result of a high body mass index, stroke-induced trauma to his lower extremities and generalized pug nose disease.
Most nights, he wakes me up with his whimpering, then moves into the various cycles of sleep, from shallow breathing to apnea, and finally into full out guttural roar.
Sophie sleeps beside my ear; her snoring is almost cute, staccato. Finnigan is at the end of the bed, not snoring exactly, more like moaning. And then there is Scott who talks in his sleep and occasionally tells someone to "fuck off".
I'm sure that I snore but that might only happen if I were in the midst of full alcoholic unconsciousness, which rarely happens anymore.
As a result of late onset maturity, I've simply become a light sleeper.
What to do?
Generally, I get up and check my email or my blog stats. Sometimes, but not often, I write a blog -- that's when I'm fully awake. Mostly, I just read the job boards wondering how I'd even be able to work a job in my day-to-day half-comatose condition.
Last night, I tried to go back to sleep, resting my one foot on Gordie who now requires human contact at all times, and the other foot off the bed lest it be assaulted by the cold pee. Finally, and gratefully, I drifted off only to be awakened at five thirty by Gordie's panting which is the signal that I must get up, pick him up and try to go back to sleep on the leather couch. Panting in Gordie's world means he's too hot and he can only be soothed by an Arctic blast of cold weather, which these days might also result in frostbite and exposure, or the allure of the cool leather couch.
Now that I think about it, perhaps I simply could have planted Gordie on the cold pee stain.
But then, we aren't really thinking at this stage are we?
Sofa surfing requires a proper routine and placement of the dogs because they all come out to sleep with me. Of course, they do.
So Gordie sleeps on his pillow, while Sophie curls up on top of me at waist position. I must always sleep on my side whilst on the couch or risk the impalement of my organs by boney little pug feet.
By six o'clock, sleep is finally mine but not for long. After a couple of hours of dogless sleep, Scott must get cold, so he wakes up, goes to the bathroom, leaves the light on then piles back into bed.
That's Finnigan's signal for "up" time.
He roars over to the couch, jumps on Sophie and the dance begins.
And here we meet again gentle readers, me with my chai tea, in my slippers, still wearing the pajamas with pee stain crusted on the bottom.
Dog owners can relate. Hope you enjoyed this blog.
Pardon me if there are typos.
Fix them yourself.
 

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