It felt like a soothing mist.
There I was, fast asleep in bed with visions of giant meatball subs dancing in my head, when I felt the little spray on my forehead. I originally chalked it up as part of my dream — the spittle escaping my lips from watching the giant meatball subs dance had inadvertently shot from my mouth and landed on my head.
But that was impossible, I thought to myself. And then I realized that since I was having that thought, I must indeed be awake. But I was still feeling that misting on my head.
I slowly opened my weary eyes and could make out two piercing eyes in a small shadow looking down at me in the darkness. Rat? Bat? Gargoyle?
Yes, Bailey the Wonderpug was perched on the top of my pillow and staring at me. Her tongue seemed impossibly long as it shot out the side of her mouth and waved back and forth from the force of her heavy, and amazingly loud, breathing. A cascade of pug spittle continued to shower down on me as my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I was able to take in all that was happening around me. Ew.
I fear that my pug has become nocturnal. She has made it her regular pattern to sleep all day while I’m at work, and party all night. I’m not kidding you. The other night I woke up to use the bathroom and Bailey was swinging from the curtain in the kitchen, a tiny noise-maker hanging from her lips and an askew lamp shade perched upon her head. Empty beer cans were strewn across...
But I digress.
She is the polar opposite of my other dog, Guinness. While Bailey is up for chasing after plastic bottle caps and scratching at me for attention in the middle of the night, Guinness is but a lump of lifeless form huddled at the foot of the bed or curled up on a dog bed on the floor. She wakes me up some nights with snoring that sounds like Bigfoot having an asthma attack, but a quick call of her name usually causes her to wake up for about an eighth of a second, roll over and silently fall back asleep.
Meanwhile, the pug sounds like an obscene phone call in my ear.
You’d think I’d be used to her late-night exploits by now, but I’m not. I still look at her with an expression of bewilderment on my face when she wakes me at 3 a.m. by trying to lift up my leg with her face so she can lie underneath me. I’m still flabbergasted by her habit of running at full speed across the bedroom floor for no reason whatsoever in the middle of the night, then collapsing on her stomach and breathing hard while she stares off into space. And I’m still puzzled over how she can put so much energy and effort into her late-night exploits, then happily walk into the bathroom with me at 5 a.m. and steadily watch me while I get ready for work.
But just try to get her off the couch when the sun is out and the rest of the world is awake. It’s like throwing a torch into a pit of snakes. Actually, this adds credence to my latest Bailey theory.
I’m fairly convinced that Bailey is a vampire.
Perhaps this hypothesis stems from my fascination with the HBO show “True Blood.” Perhaps it comes from all the hoopla surrounding the “Twilight” franchise. Or, perhaps, it’s because Bailey comes to life at night, has a propensity for using her mouth as a weapon and only enters my bedroom after I formally invite her to cross the threshold.
Of course, I also have a theory that Guinness is trying to bend my brain through some kind of shar-pei mind-altering trick, Shaun Lambert is a mystical Eskimo half-man, half-polar bear creation and that Jodi Thompson could not possibly be the ripe old age of...
Actually, that’s my brithday present to you, Jodi. I won’t take the shot. Happy birthday.
As for me, well, I have some preparations to make at home. We’ll start with the garlic to drape around my bed, add in some holy water, a few silver bullets...