Last Friday night, Chris and I had a threesome. Oh, it was fabulous. It involved him, me, and a small, furry, 4 pound fleabag known by the name of Chewie. Chris’ parents have two dogs, Chewie – the lovable terrier with unlovable bad breath – and I Chi – also known as the little bitch.
Chris is adoringly and abnormally attached to Chewie. If Chris treats and cares for our children half as good as treats and cares for Chewie, then we’re set. If our children piss and shit all over the house like I Chi, we are not so set.
We were sitting at his parent’s house with Chris stroking Chewie’s hair and gently rubbing his tummy (why do I suddenly wish I was 4 lbs and worthy of this type of attention), when he looked at me and said, “I want to take Chewie home tonight.”
NO NO NO. In my mind, I shouted NO a hundred times over hoping on some cosmic subconscious level my husband would hear and heed my warning – NO. A dog, an animal, in a human bed is never ever a good idea. Think about it –paws filled with outside germs, a mouth that has tasted it’s own bowel movement on more than one occasion, a tongue prone to excessive drooling. This is not the husband we are talking about – this is the dog, the little fleabag that will NOT be spending the night in our bed.
But, being a loving, comprising, this-is-a-partnership type of wife – sometimes – I thought about it. Now, I’m no stranger to dogs in the house at night. Enter one high strung spotted Dalmatian by the name of Cookie that belongs to my mother and wakes up about 20 times a night to go out, get a drink, eat some Cheerios (yes, at one point my mother in her effort at brilliant behavior modification would sprinkle Cheerios on Cookie’s bed to keep her quiet when she barked at 2 am – perfect).
And that’s when I made an executive decision. I don’t make these often, and usually save them for sensitive, could-be-really-bad situations. “No, he’ll keep us up all night,” I replied. I was going to stand firm, I was putting my foot down. No dogs tonight. Not in my house (note: I get to refer to it as my house when it involves matters that may potentially lead to household mess, extra laundry, or distasteful home décor, like painting the laundry room bright orange, or putting up black curtains – executive decision NO).
“Come on, he’s small and cute. I really want Chewie to stay with us,” Chris begged. He put his face close to Chewie’s. They both looked at me and smiled. It was useless, Chewie and Chris were sleeping together tonight.
“FINE,” I said. Politely. Ok, bitchily, at best. In my mind, I knew nothing good could come of this. Nothing.
We grabbed Chewie’s leash – my demand, Chris was ready to go leashless but I thought new dog in new neighborhood with no leash = not a good idea. We grabbed some kibbles. You know, for the 2 am snack break. We grabbed Chewie. We headed to the car.
Chewie represents the .001 percent of dogs that do not like car rides. Never trust a dog that doesn’t like riding in the car. All dogs should love riding in the car, sticking their nose out the window, feeling their ears flop in the wind. Not Chewie. Shakes like a crack addict. Jittery, moany, jumpy. A real joy in the car. Though we only had to drive about 2 miles, it felt like forever.
Once inside our house, Chewie did some exploring. He sniffed everything, he ran in circles, he got under my feet, it was a small dog at it’s best.
Then we headed to bed. For something so small, Chewie can leap like an NBA all-star. He has a vertical jump of about 10 feet and upon entering the bedroom he immediately launched himself about 4 feet into the air and on to our bed.
Chewie found his place at the foot of the bed. He seemed content and quiet enough. We turned out the lights.
After only a few minutes, a sound broke through the silence. Either Chris was licking himself to sleep or something was going on with Chewie. I turned on the light. There he was 4 pounds of furriness licking a circle, 5 inches in diameter, on to the sheets.
“Make him stop,” I demanded, this time not so politely and quite bitchily.
“Chewie, stop,” Chris said into his pillow.
Oh yes. That’s going to help.
Chewie moved a little closer to me. In fact, you could stay he started snuggling with my behind.
“How cute, he’s spooning with my ass,” I announced.
Yes, it was cute, until about 5 minutes later when he started licking again.
This continued. It did not stop. The only thing that changed was that Chris fell asleep and I did not. And for the next 4 hours, I was awakened intermittently by a tiny pooch licking, licking his paws, his legs, the sheets. Maybe he needs some kibble?
At 2:20 am, I was awoken, yet again, by the mealy, mushy sound of a dog’s tongue rolling across my bedsheets in perfect concerto with my husband’s imitation of Mr. Frump and his Iron Lung. It had escalated beyond the point of just tolerating it and going to sleep. I had to make a move. This had to stop.
I bolted up, dramatically whipping my pillow out of the bed and making as much noise as a 400 pound gorilla – like only an angry woman can do – and went towards the other room.
“What’s wrong,” Chris asked, as I walked away. Great – gorilla-sized theatrics were a success.
“THE DOG,” I shouted. The dog, I desperately pleaded to myself. Really, dog, have you NO idea that in less than 5 hours I must submerge myself in water so cold for so early in the morning and make my way through 4500 yards of probably some ridiculous set of 3 x 400 IM on a 5:00 interval. Totally impossible but that’s the kind of stuff you see at a Saturday morning practice.
I settled into the other bed and looking at the clock realized it was 2:30 am and I was finally sleeping in a quiet, comfortable room. No snorers, no lickers allowed.
It didn’t last long.
I heard footsteps down the stairs, the garage door opens, and a cars headlights shine into the window. About 10 minutes later, the car pulled back into the driveway, the door closed, and the footsteps returned up the stairs.
I fell asleep.
The next morning, after about 3 hours of collective sleep, I returned to our bedroom asking Chris what happened at 2:30 am.
“I took the damn dog back to my parent’s house. It started licking itself again,” he explained.
For the better part of the night, Chewie had licked his bad breath all over the entire king-sized bed sheet. One thing was sure, though, these sheets were getting washed. NOW. And with that, Chris got out of bed and we stripped the sheets. That’s the last time we let a licker spend the night. That is the last time we invite anything under 5 lbs for a threesome. In fact, I rule out anything at all that has a tongue.
We waited for the washer to get halfway through it’s cycle, then left the sheets soaking for the next 8 hours. It just seemed like the best way to get them clean and free of Chewie’s breath.
And the next time Chris looks up at me, wide-eyed and hopeful, and asks if something can spend the night, I will make an executive decision, put my foot down, and deliver a loud and decisive NO.
