Strange Bedfellows Can Keep A Dog Awake At Night
2 am. I became aware of something cold and eerie pressed against my left elbow. I lay still for a time, trying to determine if this feeling was the ghost trying to get my toes, or if it was something more corporeal, such as…my dog’s nose.
“Oh, god,” I moaned. I rolled over and peered into Mooch’s eyes, which were somewhat visible in the dim glow cast from the alarm clock. “What now?”
Mooch stared back at me.
I listened intently for a moment, expecting to hear thunder in the distance. No thunder. No hooting neighbors. No sound that might make Mooch scared.
“You can’t get in bed with me,” I told her.
She continued to stare at me over the edge of the bed, her lips perfectly draped over my favorite blanket. I sighed.
“What’s up, dog?”
Mooch whimpered softly.
“I’m supposed to translate that?” I rubbed my eyes wearily. “You know, for the past eight years I haven’t had not one single good night’s sleep. It’s no wonder I drag my a** through the day.”
Mooch grumbled, soft and low.
“Do you hafta barf?” I queried. (I think I’m the only person on the planet who owns a dog that is trained to go outside when she feels like she has to barf.)
Mooch pressed her chin into the mattress and remained silent.
“Okay, you don’t gotta barf. How about potty? You gotta potty?”
Mooch stared at me in silence.
“Okay, you don’t hafta potty, either. So, go to bed.”
Mooch obediently walked to the foot of the bed. I watched as she stared at her bed. Keeping an eye on the outer edge, she daintily climbed into her bed, but she didn’t settle down. Instead, she crossed over to the other side, got out of her bed, and went to Rabbit’s side of the bed. Rabbit was sound asleep. She peered into his face, then pressed her chin into the mattress and waited.
I stared at her. “Mooch, what’s up? Go to bed.”
Mooch dutifully went to her bed. She stared at the bed for a time and then reluctantly got in. She squeezed herself into one corner of the bed, gazing periodically at one particular corner of the bed, then got up again and came to stand beside me.
“Is something in your bed?”
She woofed in affirmation, a sort of whisper-woof she’d been trained to use when she wasn’t supposed to wake Rabbit.
“Oh, god. Did you pee in your bed?” I groaned.
Mooch stared at me. “I didn’t pee in my bed, mom.”
I got up, grabbed the little flashlight I kept beside my bed, and went to investigate the condition of Mooch’s bed. I saw nothing.
“There’s nothing there, Mooch. Go to bed.”
Mooch whisper-woofed again, as if to say, “Give it another look, ma.”
Fully awake now, and thoroughly annoyed at having yet another night’s sleep wrecked beyond repair, I switched my flashlight back on and swept the beam over Mooch’s bed. “There’s nothing. Nada. Just a few specks of dirt.”
Mooch gazed up into my face, then peered at one particular speck of dirt. I followed her gaze. Bending down, I intended to sweep a finger over the speck to show her that it was just a bit of dirt, when I realized the bit of dirt moved. I peered closer. Darned if it wasn’t a tick.
“That?” I demanded. “You woke me up for that?”
Mooch woofed. “Yeah, mom. I don’t want that thing on me.”
I picked the tick off the bed and went down the hall to flush it down the toilet. Back in the bedroom, I gave Mooch’s bed a thorough examination, and made sure no more critters lurked there. I straightened her blanket. She watched intently.
When I was finished, I patted her head. “Better?”
She grinned, wagged her tump, and stepped into her bed. “Thanks, mom. I knew you’d fix it.”
“Yeah, yeah, mom fixes everything,” I muttered as I climbed back into bed.
Mooch settled down and sighed happily. I stared at the ceiling, wide awake. Just then Rabbit rolled over toward me, paddled his feet a few times, and accidentally scratched my ankle with his toenails.
Growling, I pulled my foot away. I’d get the toenail clippers, but I didn’t want to scare dog and man in the middle of the night, so I left it alone. Maybe I’d get some sleep…eventually.
Sighing, I tucked the blankets under my chin and settled in for a few hours of contemplating the ceiling. If I were lucky, I’d see something exciting for a change, like a ghost. A beam of light from a UFO parked outside the window.
Nah. Most likely, I’d simply hear the neighbor down the street getting drunk and hooting like a redneck. Just another sleepless night in Florida.
C. D. Blizzard is the author of the novels Blackwater, Broken, and Profile.
