"Slurp, slurp, slurp.... "
It's four thirty in the morning when I hear the familiar sound.
"Slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp... "
It's the sound of Bette drinking water in the middle of the night. On the floor in the kitchen is a large bowl that I keep filled with water for the dogs. Every night Bette gets up out of bed at least three times, and goes into the kitchen to slake her thirst. And quite a thirst it is. Before Bette I only had to fill that bowl once a day or less. Bette has turned that into a three times a day chore. I have never seen a dog pass so much water through its body. That little twelve pound dog must drink a gallon a day. Chandler, who weighs in at eighty pounds, probably drinks a quart a day. I've tried not putting water in the bowl overnight so that Bette won't get out of bed to drink, but that does not work. She will stand on top of me and stare into my face until I wake up and fill the bowl. So this early morning I am very groggy and I try to ignore Bette and her strange nocturnal water habits. That's when the slurping stops and Bette comes bounding up onto the bed to snuggle next to me on my pillow. There is the jingle, jangle of her tags as she jumps up and walks across me as if I were just a piece of furniture. Then the digging into my pillow to create a nice bowl for her to lay down in. But instead of laying down, Bette just stands there on the pillow next to me. "Lay down" I tell her. That's when instead of laying down, Bette opens her mouth and shoots out the entire contents of her stomach with the force of a fire hose.
"Snork... hmmm... what's happening?" Mark awakens
"Nothing. Nothing at all."
I grab my pillow from under Bette and go out to the living room, where I lay down on the sofa. It smells a little like dog, but it's not too uncomfortable.