It was a dark and stormy night. 6:30 AM. The sky was dark and my mood was stormy. I was asleep. Suddenly, I was awoken by the sounds of gibberish. “Bwaaaa naaa, bee boop bwaaaa!” I blinked my eyes open slowly. Very slowly. My head was taking a pounding harder than a colt in Massachusetts. I felt as deflated as a New England football. There was a real dog spooned up next to me under the covers, and she wasn’t going anywhere, but she also wasn’t making any sounds. Those were from the boy.
The boy continued to jump around the bed making the horrible noises. He was destroying my cozy environment faster than a carbon emission. I tried to protect the dog with my arm, but I was tired. As tired as political statements on Facebook. The boy squished on top of the dog like an anvil on a Twinkie, and my arm was the cream filling. I called out for him to calm down and go bother his mother, but she was in the shower and as much use to me in that moment as a Democrat in Alaska. No, this was up to me.
Struggling to my feet, I threw the boy shade like I was Obama giving a state of the union address to a room full of applauding Republicans. “Go downstairs!” I barked, you know, like the dog I was protecting. The boy left faster than an MSNBC employee at a Furry convention, and I rolled over to try to catch 5 more minutes of shuteye. That was when I felt it. The bed was wetter than a Sacramento coastline 50 years from now. Pulling my phone from the bedside table, I turned the flashlight on and inspected the area. There it was. A small circle of pee that I had just rolled in, like a Walton in cash.
Someone had peed in my bed. I quickly checked to be sure that it was not me. Nope. I was cleaner than Dasani tap water. There were only two suspects now. The dog, and the boy. My first thought was the dog, but that made no sense. I learned during house training time that dogs don’t pee where they sleep, and the smaller the area, the less likely it is for a dog to pee in it. And this area was smaller than the congressional approval rating. It had to be the boy then. But the boy would have told me. His favorite thing to do is to loudly proclaim his misdeeds with great pride. Clearly I needed to investigate further.
I called the dog back up onto the bed and pointed her nose at the scene of the crime. No reaction. She was about as surprised as a hymn in church. Not even a sniff. This told me that it was not the boy. If it was the boy’s doing, that dog would have been a-sniffin’ and a-snortin’ like a pig in truffle season. One final check would prove my suspicions. Yes, the boys pants were drier than a Mormon wedding. So it had been the dog after all. But why? How? The dog has slept in my bed since she was knee-high to a teddy bear, and we have never had a problem. And then the realization hit me like a Maroon 5 song. This was a two man job.
The dog had been sleeping next to me, just like always, with a full morning bladder, and then the boy had landed on her like Columbus on a peaceful indigenous person. The pressure from the squeeze, and the full, sleeping dog bladder had done their work well. The case was closed. Now all I needed was a shower. And a new bed.
Nice use of deduction detective.
I like the similes.