You haven’t lived until you’ve waded through a stinking lake of basset hound piss in the middle of the night. I lived through it once. Now the memory motivates me to bound out of bed before the first whimper clears the big dog’s throat.
Last night close to three nature called my 80 pound, eight year old basset. I was sort of pissed because I’ve been having trouble sleeping, and that leaves me short tempered. Still, I pulled myself from the trap and lumbered down the hall to let her out. Naturally she fooled around out there for the better part of half an hour. I’d just dozed off on the sofa in the dog room when her huge bark brought me back.
So I let her in and returned to bed. Before I could even pull the covers up, she started whimpering again. It was starting to thunder, and she and Number Two, a mongrel terrier type, are both terrified of bad weather compliments of Hurricane Frederick. So I stormed down the hall and popped her big ole ass with the sports page. The terrier took cover, but the basset didn’t flinch. I threatened to kill her, she stared me down, then I headed back to bed.
Before I could even get my door shut good she was rumbling down the hall. I know when I’m beat, so I opened my door and let her in. I climbed back in bed and on cue, the terrier started screaming. I called him, but he wouldn’t come. He was still fretting about my spanking his sister. So I got back up, went down the hall, picked him up and set him right back down. That reset him and he bolted for the safety of my room.
A few minutes later, as the storm abated, the dogs settled down. A few hours later, now, I feel like I’ve been up partying for a couple of days. Help.
