My husband and I had a 3 am epiphany recently. We are those people. You know the ones who baby talk their pets, the ones who refer to their puppies as 24 months old instead of two years, the ones who spend more on a pet’s hair and food and supplements than their own? Yep. That is us. We are they. But, the way we came to this realization was quite comical. See, we were completely asleep in the early hours before dawn. That’s a miracle in itself, because in order for me to actually sleep, the following things must occur: 3 fans must be whirring (1 ceiling fan and 2 nightstand fans), a meditation story about a man who canoes down a river and finds an alien hologram must be playing (the meditation story is only a half hour long, but we have the dreamy music set to 10 hours), and I must have the perfect pillow to body ratio of 2 head pillows/1 upper body pillow/1 lower body pillow – aka the pillow fort. 20 milligrams of melatonin and a 16 oz glass of water don’t hurt, either. But, on the night in question, all the stars were aligned and we were both blissfully asleep. Then, it happened. There was a thrashing ruckus-y, wrestle-y, monster noise. My eyes popped open. I froze. Just dreams about holograms and aliens, I thought. Then, it happened again. As my husband rustled (oh, dear, he hears it, too) I immediately went to my internal threat meter. Is it a serial killer? They usually target unaccompanied women. Could it be a kidnapper? No, a decent kidnapper would know we weren’t ransom worthy. How about a dognapper? That only happens to dalmatians and Lady Gaga. It was time to turn on the lights. But 1st, about my bed…
Just about everything I cherish is old. Most of my furniture was made before WWII. I’m a sucker for a vintage dress or a nice authentic 70s clog. If it wasn’t loved for a million years and touched by a million adoring hands, it’s not welcome here. But, that’s problematic when you’re trying to outfit a 1910 bedroom, because there were no king sized turn o’ the century beds. So, you do the next best thing. You look for a reproduction piece. Imagine my elation when I found the perfect granny-chic kingsized iron bed for a steal on Facebook. I was doubly elated when I saw that same bed still for sale on a retail site for quadruple the price. We soon understood why. Even after paying for the special hardware and ordering the special universal frame, that headboard/footboard was never, ever, in a million years going to willfully attach to anything. Due to some sort of catastrophic metal plasma cutting snafu, we were stuck with a useless bed, or so we thought. Almost anything in life can be remedied with zip ties – or else I really do watch too much true crime. But, before you could say “I’m sticking Clarice in a hole with a basket of lotion,” we had that bed attached, hillbilly style. Sure, there was a bit more wiggle room between the mattress and the edge than we wanted, but the small stuff shouldn’t be sweated. Yet, my husband spotted a problem. “One of these days, one of our dogs is going to get their leg mangled between that footboard and that mattress.” This is why, despite never seeing the manglement (a totally made-up word that should exist) in process and never hearing a single yelp or whine, his next words were, after flipping that light on at 3 am, “It’s Tuck. He’s gotten his leg caught just like I knew he would. Tuck is hurt. Something is wrong with Tuck.” Game on.
The following events happened in a blur. My husband, in a fit of strength normally attributed to a mom lifting a car off of a child, single-handedly ripped the footboard from its zip tied mooring, holding it overhead much like an attacking William Wallace in Braveheart. I was, actually, pretty impressed. Meanwhile, I went straight into doctor mode as only a wannabe veterinarian who is terrible at math can do. My go to worst case scenario dog anxiety lies in that vicious, often fatal situation all deep chested breeds, like Tuck the Standard Poodle, can mysteriously develop – bloat. Suddenly, I’m rapid firing factoids like distended abdomen, foamy vomit, restless pacing and whining. You know, the things that are almost sure to happen at any moment because, clearly, his leg isn’t mangled. It has to be the dreaded bloat. So, while one of us was ripping furniture in half with our bare hands and the other of us was giving a frantic oral dissertation on the perils of bloat, the oddest thing happened. The poodle who was, moments earlier, double-time panting, shivering, and excessively stress drooling, promptly yawned, stretched out (inside my pillow fort), closed his eyes, and went back to sleep. We, on the other hand, were up for hours nursing barbaric action finger wounds and reciting bloat symptoms, respectively. And, while the dog ‘rents were worse for the wear this morning, Tuck the spoo was his normal, gentlemanly, picky eating, cat chasing self with nary a sign of a mangled limb or a twisted stomach. “I still think he got his leg stuck,” said the man. “Maybe he just had a bad dream,” said the woman. In fact, maybe he dreamed he had regular parents, instead of these middle of the night crazy warrior people. Then we yawned, made extra strong coffee, and set about living our new life, minus our footboard. Bless our hearts.
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