As is common at this time of year in Seattle, this week the gentle evening breezes have picked up dropping temperatures, but more importantly, bringing dead people to the Dahl house. I know this only because of the way I am awakened every night.
Ollie, our 5 year old dog, has an orthopedic bed in the corner of our bedroom. Like a good boy, each night he spins a few times and flops into his corner to sleep and twitch. If I awaken in the night all I hear is the soothing lul of snuffles and snores peppered with the occasional "boof" or toenail tapping against the wall in hot pursuit of a dreamy squirrel.
HAUNTING DAY ONE:
At 2am Monday, Anders, who often spouts off at the mouth when he's asleep, begins his usual mumbling and pseudo conversation which I like to engage in just in case he has something very interesting to say. This night, he's complaining about my bad breath which I have never heard him do.
"What?" I say.
"Your breath is terrible," he mumbles. "God, it's terrible, go away. I'm not letting you up here. Gross. It's reeeaaaallllyy bad."
Offended, I decide to wake him up to discuss his recent decline in marital manners.
No sooner do I prop myself up on my elbows do I see IT. IT is standing on the floor on Anders' side of the bed, and Anders is blissfully back to sleep. IT's very still, staring, I think, its eyes like shiny black marbles. I snap on the light.
IT resembles Ollie. To be sure, I check his bed and, in fact, it has been evacuated. This version of Ollie, however, is trembling, staring, and rocking slowly from side to side. He is panting, which is unusual, and each breath is directed in Anders' face. I can't be sure, but I think the room has dropped 10 or 20 degrees.
Immediately I go into misfiring maternal dog mode and wake Anders so he can move over and let this poor decrepit soul into our bed of security. Anders begrudgingly complies and IT gratefully steps between us and settles in. I am sure to direct ITs panting face towards Anders and I settle back to sleep.
HAUNTING DAY TWO:
Pitch black in the bedroom, two dachshunds in their respective crates, a guest rat terrier in his crate and another on the end of our bed.
Apparently, our bed has been newly fitted with Magic Fingers while we were away during the day. I groggily wake to it vibrating regularly and, to be honest, I'm wondering why we didn't invest in this indulgence years ago. Only when I turn to face the other way do I bump into the source of the vibrations: IT.
IT is standing in the middle of our bed, statue still, panting. ITs breath, again, is hot and damp. While I am sure we feed it only the best (read: most expensive) dog food, provide it with ample filtered water, and do our loving job of dispensing lots of chewies and dentifrices, somehow ITs breath is sour as if drudged from the bowels of hell, and our usually calm and meek dog now resembles psychic vehicle Haley Joel Osmet.
In addition to shaking our bed with his trembling, his eyes are darting around the room and Anders wisely makes the observation, “I think he sees dead people.”
One look at IT and Anders’ assessment is confirmed. I am now awake for the rest of the night.
HAUNTING DAY THREE AM:
Zombie-like, I shuffle to the kitchen and watch our little pack rush outside. While they’re gone, I am stuffing all kinds of breakfasts into all kinds of food puzzles. Because he can be finicky, Ollie, having returned to his calm, still, furry self, will be eating from a bowl today.
As the dogs rush in, I guide Ollie into my office to eat in peace. Fully expecting my desk drawers and office cabinets to be gaping open when I return two minutes later, I retreat to the living room and fetch the only tool I know to banish trembling, vibrating bed panting episodes, and dead people: Ollie’s Harley-Davidson sweatshirt lovingly purchased by “Grandpaw” at a silent auction.
At the sight of it, Ollie takes a noticeable sigh of relief. His talisman. The antidote. THE crucifix, silver bullet, holy water, wooden stake.
He all but throws his body into this divine suit of armor made of heather grey cotton appliquéd with a black and orange Harley engine, bearing the phrase “Hog Dog.” It may as well say, “step off, dead people!”
HAUNTING DAY THREE PM:
At the end of Letterman, the usual, “kennel up,” sends three dogs to their crates, one to the end of our bed, and Ollie to his pillow in the corner. Hog Dog shirt in place, only slightly dirty from the day’s wear, grass stain on the elbow.
I awaken when light creeps into our room at about 5:30 am. Upon immediate inspection, IT seems to have vanished, no match for the Hog Dog shield and in its place is our fuzzy Ollie again snoozing off the edge of his bed, I am sure a smile on his face.
Our sacrifice? We have agreed to leave Ollie in his Hog Dog sweatshirt indefinitely to ensure our newly exorcised home stays dead people free. Should you see us in the city, Hog Dog shirt embarrassingly stained and even perhaps torn, it would be nice if you could just smile and pretend not to notice.
Ollie, our 5 year old dog, has an orthopedic bed in the corner of our bedroom. Like a good boy, each night he spins a few times and flops into his corner to sleep and twitch. If I awaken in the night all I hear is the soothing lul of snuffles and snores peppered with the occasional "boof" or toenail tapping against the wall in hot pursuit of a dreamy squirrel.
HAUNTING DAY ONE:
At 2am Monday, Anders, who often spouts off at the mouth when he's asleep, begins his usual mumbling and pseudo conversation which I like to engage in just in case he has something very interesting to say. This night, he's complaining about my bad breath which I have never heard him do.
"What?" I say.
"Your breath is terrible," he mumbles. "God, it's terrible, go away. I'm not letting you up here. Gross. It's reeeaaaallllyy bad."
Offended, I decide to wake him up to discuss his recent decline in marital manners.
No sooner do I prop myself up on my elbows do I see IT. IT is standing on the floor on Anders' side of the bed, and Anders is blissfully back to sleep. IT's very still, staring, I think, its eyes like shiny black marbles. I snap on the light.
IT resembles Ollie. To be sure, I check his bed and, in fact, it has been evacuated. This version of Ollie, however, is trembling, staring, and rocking slowly from side to side. He is panting, which is unusual, and each breath is directed in Anders' face. I can't be sure, but I think the room has dropped 10 or 20 degrees.
Immediately I go into misfiring maternal dog mode and wake Anders so he can move over and let this poor decrepit soul into our bed of security. Anders begrudgingly complies and IT gratefully steps between us and settles in. I am sure to direct ITs panting face towards Anders and I settle back to sleep.
HAUNTING DAY TWO:
Pitch black in the bedroom, two dachshunds in their respective crates, a guest rat terrier in his crate and another on the end of our bed.
Apparently, our bed has been newly fitted with Magic Fingers while we were away during the day. I groggily wake to it vibrating regularly and, to be honest, I'm wondering why we didn't invest in this indulgence years ago. Only when I turn to face the other way do I bump into the source of the vibrations: IT.
IT is standing in the middle of our bed, statue still, panting. ITs breath, again, is hot and damp. While I am sure we feed it only the best (read: most expensive) dog food, provide it with ample filtered water, and do our loving job of dispensing lots of chewies and dentifrices, somehow ITs breath is sour as if drudged from the bowels of hell, and our usually calm and meek dog now resembles psychic vehicle Haley Joel Osmet.
In addition to shaking our bed with his trembling, his eyes are darting around the room and Anders wisely makes the observation, “I think he sees dead people.”
One look at IT and Anders’ assessment is confirmed. I am now awake for the rest of the night.
HAUNTING DAY THREE AM:
Zombie-like, I shuffle to the kitchen and watch our little pack rush outside. While they’re gone, I am stuffing all kinds of breakfasts into all kinds of food puzzles. Because he can be finicky, Ollie, having returned to his calm, still, furry self, will be eating from a bowl today.
As the dogs rush in, I guide Ollie into my office to eat in peace. Fully expecting my desk drawers and office cabinets to be gaping open when I return two minutes later, I retreat to the living room and fetch the only tool I know to banish trembling, vibrating bed panting episodes, and dead people: Ollie’s Harley-Davidson sweatshirt lovingly purchased by “Grandpaw” at a silent auction.
At the sight of it, Ollie takes a noticeable sigh of relief. His talisman. The antidote. THE crucifix, silver bullet, holy water, wooden stake.
He all but throws his body into this divine suit of armor made of heather grey cotton appliquéd with a black and orange Harley engine, bearing the phrase “Hog Dog.” It may as well say, “step off, dead people!”
HAUNTING DAY THREE PM:
At the end of Letterman, the usual, “kennel up,” sends three dogs to their crates, one to the end of our bed, and Ollie to his pillow in the corner. Hog Dog shirt in place, only slightly dirty from the day’s wear, grass stain on the elbow.
I awaken when light creeps into our room at about 5:30 am. Upon immediate inspection, IT seems to have vanished, no match for the Hog Dog shield and in its place is our fuzzy Ollie again snoozing off the edge of his bed, I am sure a smile on his face.
Our sacrifice? We have agreed to leave Ollie in his Hog Dog sweatshirt indefinitely to ensure our newly exorcised home stays dead people free. Should you see us in the city, Hog Dog shirt embarrassingly stained and even perhaps torn, it would be nice if you could just smile and pretend not to notice.
