One of the great joys of owning a dog is the unconditional love they provide. Until you let them sleep in your bed. Then they become the most selfish hairy assed bastards you've ever slept with (that sound you hear in the background is women all over the world screaming that I must've never met their ex husbands).
We got two sons of bitches, Franklin and Louis (Sons of bitch, actually. They're brothers) roaming around my house. These freeloaders circle my bed like vultures on a carcass, waiting for the first sign of yawning so they can claim their rightful spot: dead center. My girl's hip to the game. She comes into the room, changes into her pajamas nonchalantly, and HOPS IN THE BED REAL FAST!!! The dogs freak out, throwing themselves on the mattress like children playing musical chairs when the music stops.
Which makes me the asshole, standing in the middle of my bedroom looking at a bed with less vacancy than the Hotel Bethlehem. No amount of pushing, threatening, or peanut butter biscuit bribery means shit to a squatting dog. As the alpha male of the house, it leaves me no choice but to squirm into the remaining 6 inches of the bed and hope someone rolls over during the night so I can get my whole body under the covers.
One night, only one of the canine crashers showed up. Louis must've been out carousing for bitches (If I can get away with it, I'm gonna throw it around). I was ecstatic to get my parking space back even if it was temporary. I crawled into bed, kissed my girl goodnight without having to overcome the Great Wall of Canine, and fell asleep.
I woke up at three in the morning to the sound of a clogged sink gurgling over my head. HURG. HURG. HURG. The only light source on my room is an LCD alarm clock I scored at a drugstore for ten bucks. In the red glow, I could barely make out the silhouette of a pit bull in the throes of pregame nausea.
During the housebreaking phase, one of the puppies took a piss on our comforter. It was one of the worst days of my life. Apparently, 'overstuffed' describes the state of the washing machine I put it in. Starting at home, I went from laundromat to laundromat, trying to find a washer that could handle my load (heh). After six hours, I had a damp blanket I swore I would never wash again. It's easier to buy a new one.
Mount Saint Franklin was about to erupt all over the comforter, so I did the only thing that came to my half-dazed mind. A t-shirt is way easier to clean than a comforter. I grabbed Franklin's head with both hands, centered it over my torso, and took one for the team.
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