It’s No Sleep Number

Roxie, our Hurricane Harvey rescue pooch from just over a year ago, doesn’t know how to leave a good thing alone. She keeps dragging her dog bed out into the middle of the yard, despite the 35mph winds, and curls up into it when she could be protected on the porch.

Lest you find her bed too diminutive, be aware that she chewed her dog bed up, and has now procured the bed of Tonto, our senior heeler/basset. During a water break, the wind flipped her bed over, and she decided to nest on the blue flamingo cushioned chairs instead.

I remember the vet telling us she “didn’t know how to dog.” She couldn’t take stairs, exclusively army-crawled through the house, wouldn’t get within two feet of the utility room, and leashes still freak her out (yes, we have a harness). She goes flat as a pancake on the ground and trembles at the Petco like she’s in a San Francisco earthquake. So we don’t take her. Instead, she spends her days in the back yard, free to run and play and bark at grackles, incite a weary 9-year-old Tonto into wrestling, and move any cushions/bedding/sprinkler heads/scrub brushes into the middle of the yard, sans consent. But when she gets to come inside, she curls up into my lap.

For a few minutes anyway.

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10 comments

    • She will never run normal. Few hours after I posted this, she ripped a hole in that bed and pulled out all of the brown stuffing one by one until it looked like there were 300 tumbleweeds in our yard. I suppressed the urge to drop kick her over the fence.

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