Dog Bed

Oh my bed. My bed so desperately wants to be my place of solace. Every now and then it manages that distinction, like last Saturday when I spent the day underneath the covers watching movies and playing on the internets. For the most part, however, my bed is a fairly gross place that no one wants to visit.

I originally purchased my bed to be this wonderful haven. I was so super excited to pick out the fancy bed from IKEA, one with a headboard, of course, then head down the hall to test out mattresses. I got the cutest sheet and comforter set, all Moroccan-inspired like the rest of my room décor intended to be. After many laborious attempts to put the damned thing together, and much assistance from Susanna, my cheap version of a craft-o-matic adjustable bed was finally done. And for a while, it was my sanctuary.

Then Ginger came.

I held my ground for a long time on the dog-in-bed situation, until Russell came along and guilted me into letting her sleep with us. It was over after that. Now, my bed is a pit of despair, covered in mud and hair. Gross? Yeah, I totally know. Don’t judge me.

The dogs always come first in my world. Even in my bed. I go to sleep every night, taking up less than 1/3 of my bed, with one dog on top of me, one dog in between my knees, and one dog next to my foot. My appreciation for beds in other establishments has grown exponentially, and nights that I get to stay at the Omni or Intercontinental (best beds in the world) or even when I crash with friends who snore a lot, I relish their comfy, clean, dog-free zones.

Hmm. Reminds me. I need to get the sheets in the wash.