Spoiled Dog
It's 3:34a in the Fluer/the Man/Rabid Beast house. Rabid Hell Beast from Spoiled Brat land is whining and barking his head off like there's an ax-murderer after him. The Man and I are laying in bed cursing, repeatedly saying "I don't know what to do" followed with me asking "Can I sedate him?" The Rabid Beast from Spoiled Brat land has been whining and barking and crying intermittently all night, since the Man put him in his crate at 11:30-ish.
Spoiled jerk. The Rabid Beast is my least favorite living creature right now.
It all started because I decided I wasn't going to sleep with him in our bed anymore. Every night he'd crawl up the bed, positioned himself directly in between the Man and I and crashed. At this point he'd start his non-stop, sawing wood, snoring that never bothered me, but did bother the Man. What did bother me was him constantly kicking me in the face, back of the head, neck, shoulders and back throughout the night as he tossed and turned his little muscle body of legs and paws. As he'd continue his attack, I crawl farther and farther down the bed, trying to escape the constant beating. I was unsuccessful at avoiding canine blows to the upper body, but I did successfully steal all the warmth and goodness of our comforter as I voyaged towards respite at the end of our bed, which did not make the blanket-hogging Man happy. AND! because the damn dog slept literally between the Man and my heads, I couldn't even touch the Man, which really sucked 'cause he always has the blankets and as most men know, women are always cold and turn to men as the heater in our bed. So when we had to board the Rabid Beast while we cross-country traveled at the end of July, I propositioned the Man into moving the kicking and snoring fiend off our bed permanently. It was that or purchase a King sized bed that would adequately accommodate all of us and our splayed limbed. He agreed to kick the dog off the bed.
Operation:Relocate Rabid Beast began July 29th. With the exception of the Rabid Beast waking promptly around 4:45-ish every morning, it's been a successful mission. Until last night. Last night the Rabid Hell Beast reared his ugly little spoiled head by robbing the Man and I of a good night's rest.
11:43p - I am awaken by the Man. He's asking me if I can hear the Rabid Beast; he's whining in the other room. No...I was dead asleep, but now that you have woke my pleasantly sleeping ass up, yes. Yes I can hear him. I climb out of bed and drag the crate containing our ungrateful creature into our room, thinking perhaps a closer proximity will calm and lull him into sleepy time land. After 15 minutes of whining like his heart is being ripped out of his canine rib cage, he falls asleep. Peace.
1:30a something-ish - He is up and whining again. I had told the Man on previous occasions not to even acknowledge his whines. So we are laying dead still in bed, trying to block out the apparent death throes our dog is going through. He's banging on the crate door with his little kicking paws. We start tossing, trying to get comfortable and dull the sound. Sighing ensues. At some point in time I lose consciousness - or slip into a fitful sleep.
3:00a - ish - He's revisiting his efforts of keeping us up all night. This time punctuated by barking. I think it was this time period that I drag his crate into the bathroom, closing the door, retreating the bedroom and closing that door too, hoping to diminish his sounds. I need to be out of bed in less than 3 hours, which seems too freaking soon when it's after 3 in the morning. Back in bed, he's still highly audible and the two-door barrier seems to be a challenge to him. The Man and I are sighing, 'I don't know what to do's are uttered unendingly. The day before I read that putting a whining dog into another room, then banging on the door (or some other noise deterrent) will make the dog associate whining with LOUD SCARY NOISE. I get out of bed again, stumble to the bathroom door and wait. He heard me coming, damn dogs and their amazing hearing. He whines, I bang. He whines again, I bang again, the Man tells me the banging's really loud. I give up climb back in bed. The Man asks: "Is it pitch dark in there?" Yes. It's a windowless bathroom. "Maybe that's what's wrong" he says. I tell him it's his turn to maneuver the dog around, I did it the past two times. I flop on my stomach, pillow over head as the Man assumes his chore. He doesn't return, so I get up. The Spoiled Brat Rabid Beast and him are in the living room; Spoiled Brat still in his cage. "The only thing I can think of is he's full of poo" the Man tells me. I don a sweatshirt and sweatpants, grab the Rabid Beast's leash, shackle him up and take him to our balcony where his potty pad resides, because he truly is the most spoiled, pampered, 'You don't have to step your dainty widdle puppy paws on grass' pooch in Seattle. Outside, 18 floors up, in the wind, AT QUARTER TO FOUR IN THE MORNING, he doesn't have to take a crap. OF COURSE NOT. He stations himself next to the door, waiting to go back in.
New plan. The Man rigs his play pen in our closet where the Spoiled Brat will be close to us, see us, smell us and have an area to roam, if he should deem it so, his highness. Into the pen he goes, into bed we go. No reduction in barking. He did not get the Cease and Desist Your Damn Whining memo we issued. I have to get up in two hours. We cave.
The Rabid Hell Beast from Spoiled Brat land wins. Sleeps the few remaining sleepy-time hours in bed with us, although (for once) not in between us, instead, on my side of the bed, damn bed hog.
Now, I fully understand this is my (our) fault. That doesn’t prevent me from being thoroughly pissed at our Spoiled Brat. It doesn’t help that now, I’m cranky.
