Wednesday, February 29, 2012

My Confession

I have a confession that may shock many of you.

I know I seem like a reasonable woman – well educated with a head on my shoulders. I have a thriving practice with patients who rely on me. I diligently pay my bills on time and maintain a very tidy home. No matter how much I want to, I don’t punch people with full carts in the 10-item-or-less line or threaten harm to noisy children on planes.

But here’s the thing. I let my four not-so-little critters share the bed with my husband and me. I know, I know! It started out innocent enough. When we got Selina six years ago, she was just a tiny puppy with these big eyes and a tiny yelp and I couldn’t bear to put her on the floor. When we got Bruce five months later we wanted him to feel like he was part of the family. By the time Chloe and Remy came around years later, there was no turning back. Now we can’t get any of them off the bed. Trust me, we’ve tried. They’re very entitled little monsters.

Squeezing all six of us onto a queen bed has led to much discomfort and several accidents over the years, but two nights ago took the cake.

It was about 3 o’clock in the morning and I heard someone start gagging, like they were about to vomit. I’m a very light sleeper, so my eyes shot open. I was sleeping on my stomach with my right arm sort of by my side and my left arm bent so that my hand was under my cheek. I assure you this is one of the more comfortable positions in our overcrowded bed.

I tried to move in an attempt to save our very expensive sheets, but realized I was completely trapped. Selina was laid out across my legs, Chloe had my left arm pinned down with her whole body, Bruce was curled on my butt and Remy was standing with his front paws on my back.

First I heard it. The sound of vomit. And then I felt it. Remy wretched his dinner right onto my back. After gagging a bit myself, I flailed my right arm as much as I could underneath Remy and frantically tried to get my sleeping husband’s attention. I opened my mouth to scream, but a sad whine was all that escaped. Panicking, I began to buck my body, but they all held their positions and just rode it out. I flailed my arm again, barely brushing past my husband, who grunted a little, rolled over and continued his uninterrupted sleep.

Then it got worse. I know, I’m pinned down by four creatures who have clearly conspired against me in some sort of domination play with dog vomit running down my back, how is worse possible? Here’s how – my sweet little Remy started licking the vomit up. I still can’t stop shuddering.

I closed my eyes and attempted to do what I tell my patients to do when they are faced with their fears: Take deep breaths, relax all your muscles, visualize what’s happening and eliminate the power of fear. My advice is bullshit. I dove headfirst into denial mode, repeating, “this isn’t happening” until I passed out from exhaustion.

The next morning, after weeping through my shower and washing all the bedding, I vowed to retake control of my bed. I marched into the living room, where they were all snuggled on the couch, leaving no room for an actual person.

“You listen here,” I began. “Tonight you sleep on the floor!”

No response.

“Hey! I’m talking to you! I mean it! The floor.”


“Mat,” I screamed to my husband. “They aren’t listening to me!”

As soon as the words left my lips I realized I had completely lost my mind. The animals had won.

But last night, I kept my word. I ignored all their whining, shut the door to the bedroom and crawled into my freshly made bed sans pets. It was glorious! I rolled back and forth, snuggled close to my husband and finally had all the covers I could ask for. But as the clock ticked away, I found myself increasingly uncomfortable and unable to sleep alone in that great big bed. I fought my feelings. I knew I had to stand my ground. But it became too much, so I got up and opened the door where four sad faces looked up at me from the hallway. It wasn’t so bad, I told myself as I watched them leap back onto the bed, completely taking over my side. People have endured much worse than a little discomfort and dog vomit. Right?

So, there it is. My confession. I’m a crazy person.

Dr. Em


  1. I guess now that you've been baptized in pet vomit, when the time comes you won't mind a little baby poo in your family bed.

  2. See! This is just one more reason not to have pets! Animals were never meant to be rounded up into little houses and treated like 'babies'. Animals need to be out in nature, free to roam, hunt and control their own lives. It is not our place as humans to force them to abide by human standards.

    Take squatter cat three...for the past two nights he has been mewling non stop outside my bedroom window. If someone had not taken him in and turned him dependent, he'd be able to handle himself like the rest of the squatter cats and follow the agreements I have made with them.

    Don't get me wrong; I feel bad for squatter cat three. It would be easy to run out, pick him up, pet and feed him. But then how would he ever learn to be the free feline God made him.

    Princess WeeWee

  3. Ew. Baby poo. Let's hold off til never for that. I have four pets so that nagging maternal instinct will have somewhere to go without me ever having to buy a minivan or say things like, "Honey, if we don't get to little Jimmy's recital by 6:45 all the prime camcorder seats will be taken!" That sounds like the death of romance... and nice things.

    WeeWee... you've met my little ones. They would die in the wild. Like really, really quickly. Is that what you want? Trust me, every wild dog or kitty or zebra for that matter is secretly jealous of my babies, who not only have a room filled with toys, a big backyard to play in and endless snuggle time, but also, nothing tries to eat them.

    Dr. Em