Training

I sleep on a futon on a frame; I have since a friend gave me the frame in grad school. In total, I'm maybe 8-12 inches off the floor.

Generally, I don't think my futon preference is of much interest to anyone. It's a little unusual, I suppose, but I don't think it ranks up there in sleeping weirdness with my friend who has to use a stool to get onto her massive bed.

Anyway, file that information under TMI as soon as my little rant is done.

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My sibling's 17 year old dog is staying with me once again (I guessed wrong at her age last year, but here's a pic). As you can see from the pic, she's fairly small, say about 10 inches at the shoulder.

My little guest has decided that we should get up sometime between 5 and 6 am. She alerted me to this decision the other morning by sticking her face up to mine (see, the futon information makes sense now, doesn't it) and breathing. I'm sure there are worse ways to wake up in the morning than a blast of dog breath right to the face, but I don't want to experience them; heck, I don't even want to know about them.

Dog breath is, well, nasty. People will tell you that their dogs don't have bad breath, but if the dog breathes in your face before 6am, you'll know they do.

People will also tell you that their cats never get on the kitchen counters. You shouldn't believe that, either. The kitchen counter thing is one of the great advantages most dogs have over most cats; dogs are usually too unagile or stupid to get up and walk on the kitchen counters. This isn't a moral issue; they would if they could. The other great advantage to most dogs is that they aren't really smart enough to revenge-pee, which some cats do. I knew a woman whose cat peed repeatedly on her boyfriend's stuff when he'd spend the night. That's a relationship killer right there.

The thing is, when a dog blasts you with its breath in the morning, it means only one thing, and I can't ignore that. So up I get, slip on something so I won't get arrested (because it's summer! Yay!), put on my glasses, and trudge to let her out.

She comes along quite happily, hits the grass, squats decisively, and then it's time to play. Seriously, she wants to play. I've tried going back to bed, but she stands there looking disappointed and concerned, and breathing at me, eying my face up close. (I don't think she can see much at this point, but she fakes it well.)

I'm going to have to start going to bed earlier. She's training me.