It never occurred to me that THAT DOG might be reading my blog (although I'm not sure why, given her hours of free time each week and delightfully curious nature), but her behavior since my last post makes it clear that not only has she read it, she is HORRIFIED by the idea that I might adopt the resolutions mentioned therein. Last night she opted for the type full-body protest made popular in the 1960's (apparently she's been watching the History Channel and reading up on the women's movement, too).
Normally, we have a standard bedtime routine we follow, established by her majesty: She decides when we need to go to bed, then walks back and forth between the bedroom and whatever room we're in, pausing to glare at us until we relent (or smarten up, as she might put it) and come to bed. If one of us is in the kitchen and the other in the living room, this process is particularly cumbersome, as she has to herd us back together and then off to bed. Really, her role in the family isn't at all unlike that of a nanny.
Once we're in our bed, she goes over to hers, where she stays until approximately 2:30am, at which point she joins us on our bed. We've never figured out why she does this, but I'll admit it makes the whole "enjoying the marriage" thing a whole lot easier. Whatever hubby and I are gonna do, we're done by 2:30am.
Last night, though, she staked out her position on our bed at the unthinkably early hour of 8:30, and didn't budge until we finally crawled in around her. Then she stretched her little thirty-pound body the FULL length between us, and fell sound asleep. She didn't move until Steve left for work this morning. There was no a kiss goodnight last night for the Ryans - the best we could do was a high-five (which, contrary to what Heather Appleton told me in second grade, does not create babies).
Now I know THAT DOG doesn't object to our reproduction; I think she's rather looking forward to the opportunity to have a human of her own to train from scratch. So this morning over my coffee, I pondered what might be upsetting her, and all I could think of was THE LIST.
To the core of her being, THAT DOG does not want to live with a monkey. Not even for a minute, not even as an experience of the broader animal kingdom. She has made it clear over the past eleven years that she could care less about expanding her social network, and she's more than happy to live forever in the company of human beings who pet her and give her treats. The hot dogs question is negotiable, I'm guessing, but the trip to Sweden is not. Sweden is cold, and as Meg pointed out, it is a land of heavy sweaters. THAT DOG does not take kindly to being dressed up in fabric, knit goods, or even trendy little raincoats designed to protect her from the elements. Plus there is precipitation in Sweden, and THAT DOG does not like to be wet. We've not chatted much about metaphysics, so I'm not sure how she feels about time travel, but I'm quite certain that watching me belly dance would shave years off her life. She might be an odd looking dog, but she has a certain dignity about her, one she's not willing to sacrifice so I can learn the art of wiggling to shrill music that would undoubtably hurt her ears.
THAT DOG has taken a stand, and am writing here to say, "Kylie - I hear you!" So I promise, no monkey, no trips through the airport that end with you shivering in a wee sweater, and no Middle Eastern Dance lessons. Steve and I will have to make baby Ryan the old fashioned way - by going to bed when you tell us to and making the most of the hours before 2:30am :)