This morning during those early hours before dawn when you’re body is lapping up the last bits of good sleep I was rudely awakened by Mother Nature and an impressive thunderclap. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping that act would magically lull everyone back to sleep but I waited for it…Miss C’s pitiful voice pleading, “Mommy!”
I shuffled across the hall, crawled into Miss C’s bed, and a few minutes later there was another loud thunderclap. This time I could hear our dog Bailey barking from across the house so I got up, not wanting her to wake anyone and also not wanting her to attempt to climb the stairs that lead up to our kitchen since she is in recovery mode with her back and loopy from pain medication.
The hubby was also getting up at this point and offered to go check on her. I gladly crawled back in bed with Miss C. A minute or so later the hubby’s shadowy figure darkened the doorway. He was holding Bailey, all 38 pounds of her, like a baby. “She’s a little bit wet,” he said. “I’m going to put her in our bed if that’s OK. She’s really nervous about the storm.”
Normally I would protest this, but I was half asleep and mumbled OK. It was just a few days ago that I was preparing myself for that horrible decision that no pet owner wants to make about their aging dog. So I was OK with a little damp dog on my side of the bed. Bailey is terrified of storms and there was no sense in leaving her alone as she might hurt herself by trying to crawl underneath a table or chair.
And then it dawned on me, because I was tired and because I am mentally a little blonde…he said Bailey’s fur was wet. This meant at some point in the night she had managed to go through the dog door for the first time since injuring her back on Sunday.
I will put up with the wet spot.
I will love her as long as we still have her with us.
I will still get irritated with her when she barks at the table, though.