THE WOMAN WHO SLEEPS WITH A DOG

            Eleven months after my husband died, on a sunless, empty Saturday in January, I sat in our now hollow, silent bungalow. A thought struck so intensely that I spoke out loud.

            “I need something alive in this house besides me.”

            We had planned to add a dog to our household. Whiled away hospital hours, turning the pages of A Complete Book of Dogs, debating the merits of Collies and German Shepherds. Whatever kind or sex it was, we would name it “Crystal” in honor of my husband’s family dog, a Collie.

          I adopted a two-year old, fifty-pound shepherd/terrier male in need of a haircut. I call him Crys. He answers to Crystal, too.

*

            On our first night together, I established Crys on a thick bed of blankets in my bedroom. I figured he would be used to sleeping on the floor.

            Not so.

            When I woke the next morning, he was curled tightly in the southwest corner of my bed as far from me as possible. That he’d waited until I was asleep before sneaking unto the bed was proof he understood he was in forbidden territory.

            In short simple sentences, in an emphatic voice:

            “Oh no, you don’t.”

            And then.

            “Dogs do not belong on furniture. Especially not on beds. What would my mother say?”

He tilted his head when my voice rose, a question in his eyes,

            But scolding him nine hours after he’d transgressed felt foolish and proved futile. That night, while I was asleep, he returned to his corner of the bed.

*

            I’d found Crys at the farmer’s market where the SPCA offered dogs for adoption—I’d stopped by just to look. Crys sat tall and straight in a wall of wire cages. His forearms braced close to his chest, back muscles taut, paws pressed flat against the wire grid. He barked and barked, a high, sharp, jarring noise. The attendant sprayed water in his face to stop him, which he clearly hated. To give them both a break, I asked for a leash and took him for a walk.

            He set our pace with a prancing gait, head held high, graceful tail in full sway. I liked the way he glanced over his shoulder to make sure I was still there. He was a handsome fellow, fortunate because something shallow in me prefers handsome. His multi-colored coat (fawn, black, salt and pepper, white) indicated a Shepherd and his dark, highly curved eyebrows hinted at Schnauzer. He was friendly, curious, leaned in for ear scratches.

            When it was time to leave the market, Crys cheerfully hopped into my car, posture-perfect on the back seat. He didn’t look back as we drove away.

*

            I adapted to the bed issue. After all, he waited until I was asleep, didn’t take much space, and stayed still until I woke. In the morning, before I’d moved any body part except eyelids, he’d stand on the floor beside me, eye-to-eye, tongue hanging in a loopy dog-smile, eyes bright, ears alert, acting as if he’d spent the entire night down there on the floor.

            We each pretended he was not sleeping on the bed. I was conspiring with a dog.

*

            Crys was a dumped dog, abandoned in deep night at the city dump. Yet healthy, well-fed, and house-trained. A surveillance tape from the dump showed a man in a baseball cap pushing him out of a car, driving away, leaving a confused dog behind.

            He would, forever after, prefer women to men.

*

            When Crys tired of waiting for me to fall asleep he graduated to jumping up unto his corner the instant I turned off the bedside light.

            Okay, no big deal. What was a few minutes either way?

            Crys knew he shouldn’t be there, quickly hit the floor in the morning, and didn’t infringe on my three-fourths of the bed.

            The fakery continued. I found a worn quilt to protect the bedspread. Crys understood it was for him and reliably centered himself on top of it.

            It took a few weeks and a nighttime bathroom trip before I realized Crys had reached mid-bed territory. He must have crept forward, inch by inch, night after night. Nothing to be done about it, really. Besides, there was something comforting about his weight on the bed, his warmth against my feet, his breathing body close by.  

            Every morning we ignored reality, behaving as if he had slept on the floor.

*

            I had lost the battle of the bed.

            One night, a nightmare seized Crys. He moaned and jerked, shudders that shook so hard I heard and felt them through my sleep. Instinctively, my left arm stretched toward him. I pressed my hand firmly against his soft fur.

            He quieted. I relaxed. We slept.

Under the Gum Tree, Spring 2024