The great Great Dane Rearranging of it’s Still Dark O’clock

Chris and I never wanted to be a dog parent cautionary tale, but here we are.

Long ago, back when we had just one tiny dog, one semi-huge dog, and three cats, we used to close our bedroom door at night. None of the animals slept with us. It was peaceful. It was clean. It was glorious.

Then, at some point, possibly during a shared delusional episode, we decided to let Dulce sleep with us instead of adjusting to her crate.

Dumb da dumb dumb dumb.

Now, here is what bedtime looks like in our house.

Dulce leaps into bed and wedges herself diagonally between us, poking her cold nose into Chris’s stomach while positioning her butthole directly at my face like some kind of furry air cannon. She demands pets and praise for being a “pretty blonde” before finally settling in, victorious.

I curl up in the fetal position, crank the ceiling fan to hurricane, and mentally check into a luxury hotel where I am blissfully alone and room service brings wine and peace. I almost drift off.

Until Heinz, our anxious middle child, decides he too deserves to be in bed. But Dulce blocks him like an emotional linebacker. So Heinz slams his body into the door repeatedly until it slams closed. Dulce leaps off the bed to correct his rude behavior.

This is Kira’s cue to take the field. She launches herself into the bed and shoves her face under Chris’s chin, blasting warm breath into his nose like a canine CPAP machine. Dulce retaliates by jumping back in. Heinz slinks in behind her and lies across my feet like he’s trying to snap my metatarsals in protest.

Everyone eventually falls asleep. For about an hour.

Then the sun rises. Or I have to pee.

If I dare leave the bed, I return to find Kira has taken my warm spot and is feigning deep sleep. She knows I cannot move her because she is 130 pounds of deadweight with the stubbornness of a goat. I wedge myself back in and recover exactly five inches of bed and half a blanket. If Kira’s paw is under the covers, she flails like she’s drowning and slaps me with a perfectly placed claw just above my waistband.

Congratulations. I have a dog claw tramp stamp.

And that, dear friends, is why Chris and I look like we have been on starring in a remake of The Hangover, without the use of any alcohol. The pets run the house. We are merely the night staff.