So my husband and boys are camping this weekend with the Scouts. They do this almost once a month. And while you’d think I’d be taking this opportunity to go out with friends, catch a movie, or check out my friend’s band, I opt to put on my pajamas at 5 p.m., grab some kindling and light myself a nice fire. And write.
So that’s what I did last night. Friday night. I stayed up ’til 11:30 p.m. writing my new blog, and finally got tucked in and covers pulled up by midnight. What I thought would be a blissful night of sleeping in my big bed, all the covers and pillows mine, I was rudely awoken by the sound that only dog owners recognize. The sound of a dog gearing up for a big puke.
Has this happened before? Absolutely. You wanna know when? Every single time my husband and boys go away for a weekend of camping. Every.Single.Time.
Does this usually happen in the hallway, in one of the bedrooms, on the stairs? Absolutely. So when I heard the sound at 4:45 a.m. it seemed so close by. So close. On my bed, on me, actually. I woke up in a panic, trying to push my dog off the bed. He dug in and literally didn’t budge. I poked him, yelled at him to get off the bed, and yes, called him an asshole, but nope. He was already mid-puke. Nice.
To make matters worse, as I grabbed the bedspread off the bed (angrily I might add), I heard the noise again. Oh no, I thought. Not again. I grabbed a facecloth from the linen closet, and stuck it under my dog’s face. “Do it on the facecloth!” I yelled. “The facecloth!” Like he knows what the hell I’m saying. Or maybe he does, because he pushed it away and puked on the carpet.