the dog-in-law sleeps over
/When I asked where Yasmine would sleep when we dog-sat her, my sister-in-law who lives in Germany looked at me in the same way the pug does: her eyes bugged out.
Then she shrugged her shoulders, spread her hands wide, and delivered the only answer that could keep this newly arrived animal from hellish nightmares: Yasmine sleeps on people.
Not near people. Not next to people. Not on the floor on a round tartan plaid cushion made for little pups. No. Yasmine sleeps on top of whoever is conveniently sprawled on a queen or preferably pillow-topped king-sized bed with a four-poster mahogany frame.
Since Ray and I already had a cat that sleeps on people, I wasn’t surprised this animal enjoyed a warm, lumpy body. But I couldn’t imagine how one old cat and one perky pug could sleep on top of each other, then sleep on top of us. We would be stacked like a layered vegetable torte, bound by eye drool, nose drip, and hair balls.
As the people on the bottom, we wouldn’t sleep a wink. If the aging cat was the next layer, he’d heave his last breath when the dog came aboard. No matter which way the cards lay, it was dubious this group would stay in one uniform slab like cheese lasagna.
I looked at Helen and was instantly stifled. She had that far-away look in-laws get when they realize their relative has married someone less smart, attractive, or worthwhile than they are. If I didn’t give in, this would be the new story they’d dredge up when hunched around a table whispering to each other. She and her German dog stared cold into my eyes.
The nerve of some species.
In a moment of forced compromise, Ray and I agreed we would sleep soundly in two separate rooms on two separate floors, each with a hefty weight on the chest.
May the best meowing, snorting pair win!
This is what I quickly learned about pugs: In addition to snorting, sniffing, and shedding, they snore worse than seven Rhodesian Ridgebacks. I don’t mean an occasional wheeze or a consistent low hum; I mean violent fits and starts that make you think the canine will give birth to a construction site.
Once she cozied up to my face, I realized the night would be about one of two things: Either I’d listen to her oink and grunt for hours or push her like a tugboat to make her stop. She’d spend the night dreaming about German bratwurst, and I’d be ready to wrap the sausage around my neck.
Shocked that she, so far from home, was sleeping like a baby while I, in my own home, wasn’t sleeping at all, I decided to simply stare at her. I hoped the energy of a dark presence would make her move away, just a little.
First her ears perked up. Then her ears went back. Then she moved, on her very own, and positioned herself a good few inches away with her head turned in the opposite direction. She was quiet.
I tried to figure her out.
She was a stalker but didn’t want to be stalked. She was a sleeper but didn’t let other people sleep. She was a comic. Pugs are known as the clowns of the dog world, and she could make you laugh just looking at her. But her sense of humor was fickle. She hated her dog halter, loved only designer water, and demanded enough apple chunks to keep the doctor away for a decade.
After a single burst of quiet, her motor revved again, and a night under the cat suddenly looked quite comfy. When I made Ray switch, I was accused of blowing things way out of proportion. He even suggested that I, as a vegetarian, secretly wanted to eat the meat Yasmine was dreaming about.
So I exaggerated. The way I see it, you need to throw a couple of pies, toot a couple of horns, and create a bit of a sideshow—with the help of a four-legged guest—to earn some serious paybacks from the in-laws.