My triumph dashed, I didn’t bother to turn on the light. I crawled in bed with the dog, which seemed unmoved that I’d poured water on her blankies. I pushed the cold wet covers to the side, in search of a dry spot. Like a saturated sponge, the fluid had spread rapidly and wide. I finally found that dry spot, located six inches from the edge of the mattress. I had a decision to make. I could either hug the seam binding and hope Abby, in her cuddling, didn’t push me off onto the unforgiving tile, not forgetting I was likely to hit my noggin on the marble bedside table on the way down. Or, I could sleep on the short loveseat in the parlor accompanied by the horrendous bong of the huge grandfather clock every thirty minutes, with the added harmony of Abby's howling, her latest self-taught trick. Or I could put clean sheets on the recently stripped, hard to make up single bed in the office. Remember, it's now 4:45 a.m. Hmm. I decided to be brave and tough it out on the wet mattress with the singing dog. And some say I’m not adventurous.
April 5, 2014
To Drink or Not to Drink
My husband, Bruce, has had a cold. While he is infirm, I
make him sleep in the guest bedroom. My primary goal is for his quick
recovery, and so undisturbed rest is key. Of course, I don’t want to
catch his cooties, either. Therefore, I’ve been sleeping by myself,
accompanied by the baked potato warmth of Abby, our rescued Chihuahua. Abby is a funny little
doggie. One of her weirdnesses is that she doesn’t like to eat from a
bowl. Her food must be on a flat plate. A noisy saucer on our tile
floor will not do. It must be on a plastic lid from a Cool Whip type
container. All that is fine until it comes to water. Ever try
having sufficient water for an animal to drink contained on a flat lid?
It makes for desert conditions. Like it or not, I am forced to fill a
bowl to the top with water and she eventually drinks. Sometimes when she
sits on my lap, which is her choice and constant, and which I like, she will
lick her black dog lips, sounding rather dry to me. I worry and I always
try to remedy negative situations to avoid worry. To that end, it was
4:30 a.m. and I got up to get myself a quick drink. Abby was snuggled
under the covers and I decided she was as thirsty as I. So, guided by the
glow of a small plug-in night-light, I filled a plastic glass with water and
took it to Abby for a few puppy swigs. I tipped the glass so the water
was close to the lip and she wouldn’t have to stick her snout down
inside. I was triumphant. She was thirsty. Well, less than thirsty,
but she did make one and a half tongue laps on or around the water. The
truth is, I heard more than I actually saw. While I gloried in her
hydration victory, my ears perked to another sound. It was the soft
splashing of the liquid falling upon the blankets and sheets in the center of
the bed.
My triumph dashed, I didn’t bother to turn on the light. I crawled in bed with the dog, which seemed unmoved that I’d poured water on her blankies. I pushed the cold wet covers to the side, in search of a dry spot. Like a saturated sponge, the fluid had spread rapidly and wide. I finally found that dry spot, located six inches from the edge of the mattress. I had a decision to make. I could either hug the seam binding and hope Abby, in her cuddling, didn’t push me off onto the unforgiving tile, not forgetting I was likely to hit my noggin on the marble bedside table on the way down. Or, I could sleep on the short loveseat in the parlor accompanied by the horrendous bong of the huge grandfather clock every thirty minutes, with the added harmony of Abby's howling, her latest self-taught trick. Or I could put clean sheets on the recently stripped, hard to make up single bed in the office. Remember, it's now 4:45 a.m. Hmm. I decided to be brave and tough it out on the wet mattress with the singing dog. And some say I’m not adventurous.
My triumph dashed, I didn’t bother to turn on the light. I crawled in bed with the dog, which seemed unmoved that I’d poured water on her blankies. I pushed the cold wet covers to the side, in search of a dry spot. Like a saturated sponge, the fluid had spread rapidly and wide. I finally found that dry spot, located six inches from the edge of the mattress. I had a decision to make. I could either hug the seam binding and hope Abby, in her cuddling, didn’t push me off onto the unforgiving tile, not forgetting I was likely to hit my noggin on the marble bedside table on the way down. Or, I could sleep on the short loveseat in the parlor accompanied by the horrendous bong of the huge grandfather clock every thirty minutes, with the added harmony of Abby's howling, her latest self-taught trick. Or I could put clean sheets on the recently stripped, hard to make up single bed in the office. Remember, it's now 4:45 a.m. Hmm. I decided to be brave and tough it out on the wet mattress with the singing dog. And some say I’m not adventurous.
