Dad here; today’s post will be short, as to leave room for a Bultaco update after mom hopefully gets him x-rayed today.
Sleeping conditions have been further compromised at the Casa; I awoke at 0300 with a little round chihuahua butt perfectly molded into my right armpit, a snoring Charlie hanging off of my right hip like Hans Solo’s blaster, and a wiry Max trying to assimilate himself into my left kidney. Mia must have some bizarre sixth sense that detects the perfect moment to be the most annoying, and miraculously materializes out of the darkness with her meathooks planted firmly in my chest.
Everybody wants to go out, but nobody wants to move, so I must once again perform the complex Yoga position known as Inverted Dog. This is where I gradually work my hind legs up from under the covers until I can hook my feet on the headboard like some sort of porky bat. After an extended period where I contemplate how far I have sunk in the social hierarchy, I transform from meditating monk to middle-aged breakdancer, rotating on my shoulders out of the bed and onto the floor, directly into a mine field of agonizing bits of rawhide and squeaky toys.
After a trudging pilgrimage to the Canine Promised Land, “Outside?”, where the amount of time dogs wander around and sniff but never actually pee is directly proportionate to how foul the weather conditions, everybody eventually saunters back in and resumes their previous positions.
Except Charlie, who uses this interlude to command a much larger slice of real estate; she may be a benevolent monarch, but make no mistake about it, she is the monarch!