Our dog used to live like a dog. When we first moved in together, Remy slept in his crate in the living room, and we slept in our bedroom. You know, like normal people.
Then we moved here, and Remy’s crate wasn’t assembled by the end of our first night in the new place. “Oh, it’s fine,” we thought, “He’ll just sleep in our bed. He’s probably unsettled by the move, so this will be a nice treat, and then he’ll go back to sleeping in his crate!”
Yeah. That was a year ago.
The thing is, for a tiny little dog, Remy manages to take up about 85% of our bed at any given moment. He snores. He sneezes in your face. And he likes to move around throughout the night, and he likes to kickkickkick until he gets comfortable. I was wondering why I was so tired all the time, until I was awoken the other night by a little french bulldog kicking me in the face as he arranged his butt on my pillow.
We tried sleeping with him downstairs once recently, and it was blissful. Unbelievably so. I’ve never felt so well-rested in my life. The problem is…Remy’s used to sleeping upstairs with us now. So when we put him in his crate—helpfully constructed of fricking metal bars—he stares at us like we’re dropping him off at the orphanage, and then collapses in a snorty heap of disappointment and defeat. It’s terrible.
Yes, this is clearly a problem completely of our own making. It’s belabouring the point a bit, but we’ve made our bed…and now we’re going to have to lie in it.