The Dog Slept on My Head and Other Problems.

On any given night, I’ll wake up in the wee hours to one, some or all of the below events:

1) An eight-year-old glued to my side body, head on my pillow, snoring in my ear, left arm and left leg slung over the top of my body.

2) GoGo, our Australian Shepherd mutt pup, pacing no less than ten times to the bed, back to the hallway then back to the bed again until she can get her mount up just right.

Her toenails go click-click-click on the wood flooring. And she’s a fatty, so when she does finally make it up onto the bed, it’s with a crushing blow to my legs.

3) My husband screaming bloody murder because, “What’s wrong with my hand?” he says, while gripping his wrist and staring at his hand, to which I reply, “There’s nothing wrong. Go to bed or I’ll cut your fucking hand off for you.”

I’ve endured fourteen years of this, mind you. The first time, I found it funny. The second time, a little bit funny. The 10,783rd time? Not funny at all. He’s lucky I don’t sleep with an axe by my bedside. (For his hand, people, not anything that can do permanent damage. Come on.)

4) Finn, my sweet white German Shepherd mutt, sleeping on my head.

He’s not a huge dog. 65(ish) pounds at his last vet visit. But about 55 pounds too large to wedge himself between the top of my head and the headboard. To be fair, this one isn’t a nightly occurrence. It only happens during Fourth of July (fireworks), New Year’s Eve (fireworks) and monsoon season (thunder).

That said, we’re having a particularly eventful monsoon season this summer, so the head-sleeping cadence is picking up. Sometimes it lasts for hours. And I don’t know how he does it, but he is utterly immovable after he wedges himself in. Once he gets into place, he shakes like he’s been locked inside a walk-in freezer for an hour. Shake. Pause. Shake. Pause. Shake.

What’s more, during the shake, he releases about a million little white Shepherd hairs up into the air that settle down into my eyes, nose and mouth.

Puff.

Why don’t you just get up and relocate yourself, Jessie? I know you’re thinking it. And in truth, I’m not sure why I don’t. It’s the middle of the night, for one, so clearly I’m too stupid to deploy common sense. Also, my alternative sleeping locations include the hardwood floor, a twin bunk bed or a firm, but oddly bumpy, leather couch.

And quite frankly, it’s my bed—a rather comfortable one at that.

That is, when nobody is snoring, cuddling, screaming, pacing or sleeping on my head.

And yet.

There may come a time when I will miss the ridiculousness of this family life. Nobody will crawl into my bed in the middle of the night. The dogs will no longer pace the hallway during thunderstorms. And perhaps, by the grace of God, my husband will finally stop screaming about his fucking hand (though I am not holding my breath).

I know I’m supposed to tell you I’ll miss all of it.

And I’m sure I will.

But at 2:17 in the morning, with 65 pounds of terrified German Shepherd mutt vibrating against my skull, Future Jessie can pound sand.

Present Jessie would just like some sleep.