The dogs woke me up at 5:15AM whining to go out. I requested “fifteen more minutes”. They responded by wrestling and jumping on and off the bed. I got up about eight minutes later. Dogs did “their thing”. I picked up “their thing” and returned inside to read the news on the internets from around the world as spun by the generally untrustworthy MSM. Also read Marmaduke. Not funny. Again.
In the meantime the dogs jumped back on the bed and proceeded to go back to sleep. I shoo the dogs off the bed, make the bed, then hop in the shower. When I come out of the shower I find the dogs tearing the bed apart again. I yell at dogs and chase them under the bed. I make the bed. Again.
Before leaving for work, I take dogs outside again. I repeat that “picking up” part.
I admonish the dogs to “be good” and, as I lock the door, I hear them snickering behind my back. I am off to work.
Returning from the bank at about 2PM I stopped by to take the dogs out again since I won’t be geting home until late.
The bed is destroyed. I yell at dogs. They wag their tails. I take them out. Thankfully nothing to pick up this time. I come back inside and I make bed. I tell the dogs to “be good” again. This time they actually laugh in my face. Back to work.
Home at 7:45. The bed is destroyed. The comforter is on the other side of the room and all of the pillows are knocked off. It occurs to me that I’m losing control of the situation. The dogs are jumping around like idiots so I take them outside. We come back inside and I feed them and make myself a sandwich which I then end up sharing with the dogs. At this point I start blogging while the dogs hop up on the bed and start wrestling and barking and humping each other. I pretend this is not happening.
A little after 11 my wife calls from Cabo San Lucas. It’s beautiful, in the eighties, and the hotel is “gorgeous”. She and Casey went and had lobster tacos at Cabo Wabo and then went to a club and went dancing. I have to break off the conversation because the Lil Bastard (dba Beckham) is at the door. He wants to go out again. Take the Lil Bastard out and he does “his thing” again but it’s too dark out to pick it up. I make mental note for the morning. We come inside and Satchmo (known to the housekeeper as “El Gordo“) is stretched out across the bed the wrong way and snoring.
The Lil Bastard then proceeds to start tossing his chewy up in the air and trying to catch it. He fields like Manny Ramirez. A drunken Manny Ramirez. As I get ready to get into the bed, which entails repositioning El Gordo, the Lil Bastard jumps into my place.
I really think I’ve lost control here.