damn dog

 Damn dog is getting up so early.  We spend all night sharing our bed with him and he sleep wherever he wants.  WHEREVER.  Be that on the Man’s head, on our tracheas, in between my legs with his head resting on my pubic bone (not cool Jimi! move NOW).  He licks my arm pit.  And, he’s prone to flipping on his back and losing his mind at random times in the middle of the night.  Awaking from REM sleep to little legs and paws pumping in the air, sharp little points gnashing is no dream.  Damn dog even mocks me in his sleep.

Now I have to arise before dawn if I wasn’t to get some exercising in.  I’m getting up at 5:30a to exercise – an entire 3 hours before I leave the house.  But now he wakes at the same time; at 5:30a Jimi’s name becomes ‘damn dog.’  Trying to perform yoga while a ferocious beast attacks is just not ‘centering.’  As I stretch into downward facing dog, damn dog deems my hair bun a threat and becomes embroiled in a hair bun war.  This hair, in case of confusion, is attached to head, that is upside down, dangling between my shoulders.  Bound and determined to overcome the damn dog and get my yoga on, I yank my head side to side, whispering “no!  ah-ah!  Damn dog!” in an attempt to not wake the Man.  It appears to him the hair bun is fighting back, attempts to dismember the offending hair bun lead to him leaping onto my head and neck.  Damn dog’s claws and fangs entangle in my hair, scraping my scalp.  Pleasant! 

Moving on to a low lunge, his little mouth nabs the drawstring of my pants.  With his bulldog jaws and the force an ox, he hunkers down into a tug of war with my waist.  I may have a low center of gravity, but I can’t balance on two side-by-side feet as it is, a balancing in a low lunge is a miracle in its self.  The tugging, of course, pulls me onto of the damn dog, which is understood be an attack, which makes him go absolutely abe-shit on my prone, off balanced body that has many juicy and chewable looking extremities that are not covered by the thin and non-protective fabric coating of yoga gear.  Damn dog only has about two teeth right now, those two canine teeth on the top of his mouth that give him the appearance of a vampire dog.  Two very sharp, needle-like teeth that have already left many marks on my delicate forearm skin from previous battles.  Trying to defend myself only infuriates him more and he gets the look of crazy in those big brown eyes located only an inches above his little vampire teeth of crazy.  Damn dog! It makes you wonder just why we got this rabid bi-poplar varmint when his mouth is opened to expose toothless jaws with the exception of those fiendish two teeth and he scrunches his head back into his shoulders so all his extra skin folds encompass his gnashing face and he’s looking at you with deranged eyes.  He looks like an old man with those glassed-over crazy eyes, sagging jowls and gummy mouth.  A nut case old man.  Damn dog, this is a previously documented look of crazy.

I manage to my feet, at which time he attacks the only thing of flesh color close to him, my toes.  Not in the proper frame of mind and trying to recover from almost being chopped to death, I start dancing, threatening to stomp him as I try to avoid him masticating my tiny toes.  I eventually plant both feet, lean down and clamp onto his teeny little haunches, right where the damn dog’s head can’t whip around and eviscerate my tender wrists.  Ultimately he returned to a slightly normal state of canine mind, all those battles with various parts of my offense body tuckered him out.  Then he’s cute and loveable and cuddly and soft.  I don’t call him damn dog when he’s like this.  I remember I love him and he loves me and we're buddies.  Forgotten is furball of fury and sharp points.  Damn dog loves me.