I am a huge fan of sleep. Can’t get enough of it.
Uninterrupted ZZZs are best, but right about now, I’ll take what I can get.
The last few weeks have made me wonder how sleep-deprived parents of newborn babies manage to function properly, because I’m finding a 12-week-old puppy difficult enough to keep up with.
Me and my old lady (can I call her that if we’re watching Sons of Anarchy?) have been trading the night shift with little Bo, who definitely peeps when he wants outside at midnight.
And at 2:27 a.m., and 4:39 a.m…
It’s better than waking up to a mess on the floor, but I feel like a zombie after pulling night duty. Even on my nights off, I don’t get a great night’s sleep because I am so dialed into Bo’s whimpering that I pretty much have my legs swung off the side of the bed before I realize it’s not my turn.
We usually let our dogs on the bed with us after their final potty break. That decision may come back to bite us once Bo, a Swiss Mountain/border collie cross, grows into his projected 80-pound frame. Mattress real estate will be at a premium.
In one way, it already has come back to bite me, quite literally.
The morning after my staff Christmas bowling party at Lincoln Lanes (which is a hoot if you’re seeking an alternative to a humdrum night out at a restaurant), I was enjoying a much-needed sleep-in when Bo draped himself across my chest. He was cute, warm and cuddly, and seemingly half asleep, so I didn’t think anything of it.
That is until he chomped down on my left earlobe.
I’m not sure how he found the exact point, but Bo re-pierced my ear with clinical precision. His dagger-like tooth punched out a piece of scar tissue that had long grown over from my ill-advised fashion choice from the 90s.
No alarm clock was necessary that day. Had I been living in the city, I’m sure my neighbours wouldn’t have needed one either.
It’s a good thing puppies are cute because there is no way they would get away with half the mischief he gets up to.
London, our seven-and-a-half-year-old, lab/collie cross, has the patience of a Zen monk. Bo hangs off her ears and neck like a lamprey eel. And if she runs away, he is now quick enough to give chase, turning to his border collie herding instincts to nip at her hind legs.
About the only household member that is exempt from Bo’s hijinks is Dasha, the cat. On the surface, it makes no sense that an aging, slightly overweight, de-clawed feline can put the fear of God into an unruly puppy, but he definitely gives her a wide berth.
Perhaps it has something to do with the time Dasha caught Bo lurking around her dish (Bo isn’t our only pet whose existence is ruled by food). She took exception and proceeded to straddle the pooch like a bronc rider, somehow keeping balanced atop him with her hind legs, while raining down tissue-soft lefts and rights as he tried to escape.
That was in Week 1, and I thought the lesson had stuck. That is until she repeated the feat earlier this week.
About the only time Bo isn’t really a threat is when he is eating (it takes him 2.79 seconds to polish off a dish of raw food), or when he is in the car. The poor little dude gets so carsick he can barely move.
I’m hoping he grows out of it because, for all his antics, he looks truly pathetic, especially with the hanging strands of drool puddling on my backseat.
I feel just as bad for London because Bo has thrown up on her a couple times…and then ate it.
Hey, want not, waste not.