Over the ten years that Scott and I have been together, we've been apart maybe a half dozen times. For years, we have lived and worked together, two peas in a very small pod.
I take this all for granted until he disappears on a caper. That's when I realize how much space he takes up in my life.
This last weekend, Scott set off in the squeaky Subaru to pursue his culinary dream, with a VIP ticket for an audition for Masterchef Canada. I was left alone with the dogs. Secretly, I was looking forward to batching it and stretching out in the bed. Having three dogs and a large husband means that I slumber on a tiny sliver of mattress, and half a pillow. By morning, I'm usually bare-assed with no covers.
The dogs serve as punctuation, with Sophie curled up behind my knees like an apostrophe, Gordie on my feet like a period and Finnigan between us like an exclamation mark. You get my drift.
There is no spooning in our bed unless it involves a snoring black bastard eel with poo breath and a bicycle where his legs used to be.
There's no tossing, either, let alone turning, to the detriment of my right hip.
So I was prepared to make the best of it, armed with a tiny flagon of margaritas and my trusty little Kobo. Friday night, for me, would be bliss sitting in the cool August evening with a copy of Orange is the New Black.
This arrangement lasted all of about ten minutes.
Finnigan started woofing at the crackhead next door who had somehow lost his dog, also known as Finnigan. (The crackhead was so damned lazy, he decided to name his dog after mine.) The guy was running up and down on our busy street, frantically calling Finnigan, the name of my dog, who responded by barking. A good hour later his buddy came out to tell the little genius that his dog was sleeping on the bed.
Crisis averted, I settled down with my cocktail only to have Finn lay a slimy stick on my shorts. Every time I tried to take it, he would grab it and roll it about some more. On the off chance I managed to wrestle the stick from him, and toss it, Finnigan couldn't find it. I literally had to get up and show him where the stick landed.
Big stupid Labranese. Looks like Lab, acts like the ass end of Bernese.
Fetch, Finnigan. Drool, Finnigan. Slime Me Finnigan. Atta boy.
Oh well, it was better than him barking at me for an hour.
Soon, the hounds settled down while I suspended my personal reality and dove into the life of the preppy prison inmate. Gordie was snoozing on the deck having snorfled around the yard barking and trying really hard to lift his leg to pee. He's on the mend, thanks to a dose of thyroid medication. He still can't see worth shit and has many conversations with trees and fences, but he's an enthusiastic toddler, and for that I am grateful. Gordie's getting a good summer, something we'd hoped for after last year's season of death. The way he's going, he looks like he'll be around for a few more years shitting on my bed and peeing in my shoes. How cool is that?
They were still punctuation, just upper case punctuation.
I got up for a glass of water. When I returned, Finn had stretched out like the radioactive octopus that once menaced Johnny Quest. I punched him in the head and made him moved over. Then I crawled between the two snoring pug. Then Sophie sat on my head with her ass in my face.
Great.
Pinkeye in the morning. Sailor take warning.
Then I smelled something awful. Gordie had shit in the bed again. Fortunately, he's a high fibre pug and his poop is like silly putty, TMI, I know.
When I finally got to sleep, it was about 3 a.m.
By the time it was morning -- I kid you not -- I was sleeping parallel to the head board on top of the pillows.
I might as well have slept on the couch, which I did Saturday morning only to have Finn puke stick all over me.
When Scott returned, the dogs looked well rested. They all stood at the fence, greeting the returning hero.
Me, not so much.
I take this all for granted until he disappears on a caper. That's when I realize how much space he takes up in my life.
This last weekend, Scott set off in the squeaky Subaru to pursue his culinary dream, with a VIP ticket for an audition for Masterchef Canada. I was left alone with the dogs. Secretly, I was looking forward to batching it and stretching out in the bed. Having three dogs and a large husband means that I slumber on a tiny sliver of mattress, and half a pillow. By morning, I'm usually bare-assed with no covers.
The dogs serve as punctuation, with Sophie curled up behind my knees like an apostrophe, Gordie on my feet like a period and Finnigan between us like an exclamation mark. You get my drift.
There is no spooning in our bed unless it involves a snoring black bastard eel with poo breath and a bicycle where his legs used to be.
There's no tossing, either, let alone turning, to the detriment of my right hip.
So I was prepared to make the best of it, armed with a tiny flagon of margaritas and my trusty little Kobo. Friday night, for me, would be bliss sitting in the cool August evening with a copy of Orange is the New Black.
This arrangement lasted all of about ten minutes.
Finnigan started woofing at the crackhead next door who had somehow lost his dog, also known as Finnigan. (The crackhead was so damned lazy, he decided to name his dog after mine.) The guy was running up and down on our busy street, frantically calling Finnigan, the name of my dog, who responded by barking. A good hour later his buddy came out to tell the little genius that his dog was sleeping on the bed.
Crisis averted, I settled down with my cocktail only to have Finn lay a slimy stick on my shorts. Every time I tried to take it, he would grab it and roll it about some more. On the off chance I managed to wrestle the stick from him, and toss it, Finnigan couldn't find it. I literally had to get up and show him where the stick landed.
Big stupid Labranese. Looks like Lab, acts like the ass end of Bernese.
Fetch, Finnigan. Drool, Finnigan. Slime Me Finnigan. Atta boy.
Oh well, it was better than him barking at me for an hour.
Soon, the hounds settled down while I suspended my personal reality and dove into the life of the preppy prison inmate. Gordie was snoozing on the deck having snorfled around the yard barking and trying really hard to lift his leg to pee. He's on the mend, thanks to a dose of thyroid medication. He still can't see worth shit and has many conversations with trees and fences, but he's an enthusiastic toddler, and for that I am grateful. Gordie's getting a good summer, something we'd hoped for after last year's season of death. The way he's going, he looks like he'll be around for a few more years shitting on my bed and peeing in my shoes. How cool is that?
Gordon, seen here, with a blade of grass
About nine o'clock, I looked up and it was completely dark. I was pretty tipsy so I toddled off to bed looking forward to a wonderful sleep. When I woke up in the middle of the night, Finnigan was snoring next to me stretched out, taking up two-thirds of the bed. He wasn't doing his usual snake act, making himself small to fit into a small fissure between his masters. He was instead laid out in full mast. There was no room for my legs as Gordie had commandeered the bottom of the bed and Sophie was in her usual place. They were still punctuation, just upper case punctuation.
I got up for a glass of water. When I returned, Finn had stretched out like the radioactive octopus that once menaced Johnny Quest. I punched him in the head and made him moved over. Then I crawled between the two snoring pug. Then Sophie sat on my head with her ass in my face.
Great.
Pinkeye in the morning. Sailor take warning.
Then I smelled something awful. Gordie had shit in the bed again. Fortunately, he's a high fibre pug and his poop is like silly putty, TMI, I know.
When I finally got to sleep, it was about 3 a.m.
By the time it was morning -- I kid you not -- I was sleeping parallel to the head board on top of the pillows.
I might as well have slept on the couch, which I did Saturday morning only to have Finn puke stick all over me.
When Scott returned, the dogs looked well rested. They all stood at the fence, greeting the returning hero.
Me, not so much.
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