The Special Bond That Forms When Someone Poops on Your Head

This morning I woke to find myself poised precariously on the edge of my bed. One vigorous yawn and I would have tumbled to the hardwood floor. This is not an unusual occurrence, however. It happens most mornings because our pugs sleep with with us and although they begin the night in tight little dog-knots, overnight they spread like those foam toys that increase in size by 400% when you put them in water. Oh, and they’re pugs, which means they snore, too. And they drool. And they fart.

All of which begs the question, then why are they in your bed, crazy woman?

Because of a special bond that was formed many years ago between me and the canis lupus familaris. I was always a dog person, but something happened one night, long ago, that made me a Dog Person. Capitalized.

When I was a teenager, our aging Dalmatian, Shiner, had taken to sleeping in my bed with me. He was a big dog, but once he curled into his dog-knot, he stayed there, with no spreading, farting, snoring or drooling, so it was fairly manageable.

In fact, I always slept quite well, because the only sound I ever heard from that sweet snoozing animal was on that one fateful night.

And it was the sound of his butt exploding.

And the next sound I heard was my own voice, screaming.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!
HE CRAPPED IN MY HAAAAAAAAAIIIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!

Shiner had had a sudden case of extreme explosive diarrhea and my bedroom looked like something out of a slasher movie filmed in a vet’s office.

After I spent the next three hours in the shower and the HazMat team had finished, I returned to find that 90 lb. spotted dog, in a giant diaper, looking up at me.

Feeling kinda bad about that, he told me with his sad eyes.

“Yeah? Not as bad as I feel about it.” I said, still bitter.

Whimper. Does this mean I have to sleep on the couch?

“The couch?! You’re lucky I’m not going Old Yeller on your butt, dog.”

He sighed and, I swear, his eyes teared up. He lowered his old body and put his head on his paws, a broken man. I got into bed and turned my back on him.

After half an hour of trying to sleep with the canine Ernest Hemingway on my floor, I turned back.

“All right, get up here.”

He smiled. I swear, he smiled and leapt up on the bed. And this is when I knew that I was a Dog Person, capitalized. Because I would choose a potential head full of crap over a suicidal pet.

Snoring, farting pugs in my bed? That’s puppy play, y’all.