My wife rolls over and whacks me on the arm. She doesn’t have to hit me, I’m already awake. I have been for the last couple hours now; just lying there while the sleep depravation headache sets in on my temples.
“Go let him out,” she says.
“You go let him out,” I reply. A long pause ensues, both of us motionless. It’s quiet for a moment and sleep feels like it might be possible. Then, it starts again, Xylo barking from inside his crate downstairs.
“Son of a bitch…” I roll over and slam a pillow on my head.
“Go let him out,” repeats Bonnie, now nudging me in the back repeatedly, rocking me with her shoves.
“This could be the extinction burst!” I declare—Extinction Burst: a term used to mark the intense finale of a dog’s undesirable attention seeking habit after it’s been tactically ignored— “I can’t give in to him now if this is the extinction burst. If I let him out, it’ll just make it worse. He’ll know he’s won. He’ll never stop!”
More human silence, more dog barking. “Just put some ear plugs in,” I say to Bonnie.
I actually had earplugs in when I said that, but they didn’t really help. It was like Xylo’s barks had some type of armor piercing quality to them, they could travel through two floors, pillows, and earplugs like tissue paper. Regardless, I had to tell Bonnie to try and tune it out. We couldn’t keep getting up in the morning to the doggie alarm clock. We’d never break him of the routine if we did. It wasn’t so much a matter of sound as it was a matter of wills. Master versus Dog, the timeless struggle which always seemed to happen at the worst possible times.
If it was just me, with my days spent working from home at my own pace in between workouts, I would wait him out; win the battle via attrition. But the wife, with her soft, delicate, dependency on sleep before a ten-hour work day was hamstringing me. Also, she was kicking me now, in the back, demanding that I get up and solve the problem.
“You’re an enabler,” I told her. “A dog enabler. The next thing you know, he’ll be addicted some hard drug, practically extorting us to do his bidding. This is how it starts woman. Mark my words: giving in when you’re tired is only a gateway drug to worse things!”
“Just shut up and let him out,” she says, her voice coming from under the blankets.
“Do marriage’s have an extinction burst?” I ask.
“You’ll find out if you don’t let the dog out.”
“How did I get saddled with the responsibility of this early morning dog care crap?” I ask, throwing the covers off and emerging from the bed frustrated. “Adopting him was a mutual decision!”
The voice from under the blanket replies, “can you breast feed?”
“What?”
“Can you breast feed?” It repeats.
I say nothing, pulling a shirt over my head.
“I didn’t think so. That means when we have a real baby in the house, I’m going to be waking up at all hours of the night to take care of it because I’m the only one who can. I’ve got plenty of sleepless nights ahead of me so the least you can do is shut the dog up.”
I stare at the speaking mass of blankets, unwilling to concede the fight. “Not if we train the baby to—”
“Don’t even try,” she says.
“Why do you always have to play the gender card?” I ask.
“Let the dog out,” the voice persists.
“Fine. But we’re not having kids,” I say, slamming the door and marching down the hallway.
“Two kids,” the voice calls after me, “a boy and a girl!”
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