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Well, my two dogs and I are getting to grips with all sleeping together in a single bed downstairs since Willow’s spay operation. Bear has settled, accepting the change, and Willow is doing very well, so I’ve now stopped the pain medication. The wound looks clean without any redness or bruising, but she does have some swelling, meaning that I’m having to ice her tummy four times a day. She’s not impressed!
I have to sneak out the Koolgel pack from the fridge as if she sees me do it, she takes off. If I’m able to sneak it past her, I must hold her on my lap, the pack held gently against her tummy in its cover, while she side-eyes me. We haven’t managed more than seven minutes a session yet, as I’m not prepared to wrestle with her, but as she’s getting more used to it, it’s getting easier. She’s eating well, had a nice healthy poo this morning, and is definitely more herself, even without the pain medication.
No outdoor walks for another six to seven days, but I’m amazed at the resilience and capability of little dogs. This operation was huge in terms of complete removal of the ovaries, fallopian tubes, and womb, but, unlike us, dogs recover so quickly. It’s just incredible. I never cease to be impressed at the ability dogs have to mask pain and recover from things in less than half the time that we would. They’re just amazing!
Anyway, last night was considerably colder. This meant that it was much easier for me to tolerate the immense heat of two tiny sausages clinging like limpets along my back or hip. They stretch out and get comfortable, leaving me clutching onto the edge of the mattress, praying that I won’t fall off.
That said, all was quiet. The darkness was thick like syrup and yet vaguely fuzzy at it’s edges with only a hint of light coming in through the window, making it rather comforting. Though my nose and cheeks were tingling with the icy cold, I really enjoy the juxtaposition of the two extremes; hard, brittle cold against the deep, velvety warmth that’s experienced under the quilt.
Bear doesn’t snore exactly, but he continually makes sounds. He’s like the soft, leftover vibration created when plucking the string of a violin – there’s a vague, muted shadow of what might be a rumble. It’s like when you hear thunder miles away so that you question whether you really heard it. It’s a warm, reassuring, and soothing sound which creates a sense of infinite peace, promising that all is well with the world.
Willow is silent, like a tiny assassin. She tiptoes around the bed almost unnoticed except for the enormous amounts of intense heat that she creates, like an exocet missile. She has the ability to creep up on you and, like a gecko, spread herself wide, sticking every inch of her tiny frame firmly to your back, hip, tummy, thigh, or upper arm.
She spreads herself as widely as she can, defying gravity in order to absorb your body heat. I’m honestly amazed (and secretly quite impressed) at her ability to appear out of nowhere like a ghost and precisely suction herself to you, velcro apparently hidden on her paws and inner thighs.
Listening to the rich, milky silence and enjoying the space to breathe, my hearing suddenly zeroed in on a strange sound somewhere to my right, over by the window. Eyes narrowed, fully focused now, I registered three things. It was inside the room, the dogs weren’t bothered, and I wasn’t mistaken. There it was again, tiny and almost insignificant, a cross between a shuffle and a tap.
Whatever it was, it was moving – and it was moving in my direction. Never one to ‘wait and see’, not a path I take easily, I gently extracted myself from Willow and leaned over to pop on my toucan light. Wow was I glad I’d moved as a giant house spider (obviously wearing hobnailed boots) was moving off the wall and down onto the back of the sofa bed.
Involuntarily, I screamed (it’s true, I’m a squeaker and have absolutely no control over it), jumping back towards the open door. At the same time, two things were racing through my mind… I had to pull myself together to capture the spider and if I didn’t and it ran somewhere, I’d never be able to sleep again, terrified it was cosying up in bed with me every night.
Of course, my over-exaggerated reaction meant that two little velvet heads shot up, stunned from under the covers. Willow immediately came off the bed towards me, but Bear, always taking the longest route, went up the bed in order to climb down from the pillow end onto the chaise next to it. However, just as he was about to climb down, it moved (‘it’ being my uninvited guest) and ran along the back of the sofa.
Literally like lightning, moving faster than I’d ever have believed possible for an overweight (I know, I know, we’re getting there) miniature Dachshund, Bear spun on his heel, shot up the pillow, and snap, he grabbed the spider, it’s long horrible legs waving out of the corner of his mouth. Horrified, I watched as Bear munched. His anteater-like tongue came out to mop up the legs before swallowing hard and nonchalantly turning back to step onto the chaise and plop down onto the floor.
I didn’t know whether to grab him for a cuddle, full of praise for completely solving my dilemma and removing the problem, or be utterly revolted and run for the hills screaming! Whilst I was frozen, deciding what to do next, little Bear pootled past me, tail spinning, as he grunted and purred his way to the back door. He had a drink (presumably to wash the spider down) and clearly decided that as he was up, if I’d oblige by unlocking the door, he might as well go out for a pee. Obediently, I opened it as he stretched his little legs. Willow followed him.
Ten minutes or so later, we all got back into bed as I artfully avoided a goodnight kiss from Bear (feeling rather guilty), settled them both down, and switched the light off.
We slept right the way through to 6:30am with no more intrusions. Thinking about it today, I’ve taken the pragmatic view that he did in fact ‘save me’. My gentle, sweet, little Bear only did what he did in order to protect and safeguard both myself and Willow, otherwise he certainly wouldn’t have eaten a large, hairy spider. Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it!
Bear
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