#140 – King of the Castle

I ended up sleeping on the couch last night. Not because I’m in hot water with the wife again; nor due to insomnia. Nuh uh. I retreated to the narrow strip of cushions because there wasn’t enough room for me in our bed — our King-sized bed!

You see, our puppy didn’t feel well. He’d thrown up his dinner and, for the first time since we’d gotten him, seemed lethargic. Wanting to “keep a close eye on him” lest he lapse into a coma overnight, Sophia insisted he join us in bed, crate and all. I ordinarily would’ve quashed such absurdity, but I felt as nervous as she did and deemed the loss of minimal mattress territory a necessary sacrifice.

When I climbed into bed at 10:00, I discovered that Sophia hadn’t exaggerated her stated intent to keep a close eye on the dog. She’d placed his crate between our pillows in a position that separated us from head to stomach. Though dubious I could get forty winks under those conditions, I felt determined to try, for Prometheus’ sake.

The problem is I’m a thrasher. When unconscious I toss and turn, flailing limbs wildly in the process. We bought a King sized bed mainly to ensure I wouldn’t accidentally maul Sophia in the wee hours of the evening.

I dozed off three times before midnight, and jolted awake three times before midnight as my elbow slammed into the crate. On the last of those occasions, I nailed my funny bone hard enough to see stars. But I didn’t abandon Prometheus, yet.  I did, however, retrieve a set of elbow pads from my old hockey bag in the basement and don them before climbing back into bed.

I didn’t desert Prometheus until the fourth rude interruption of my REM cycle. Suddenly awakening from an erotic dream in which a mysterious beauty licked maple syrup off my tender parts, I found my face pressed against the crate’s metal links … and the dog’s tongue busily probing my nostrils.

That’s when I realized we’d all be better off if I slept on the couch. As I figured, if my dream had lasted a few seconds longer, I wouldn’t have had to look up “bestiality” in the dictionary to know all three of us would need a therapist.

Better the couch than lifelong therapy.


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