The other night Mike and I were on the couch, watching a World Series of Poker tournament, when Molly decided to go outside. She does this a lot these days, especially at night when the sun has gone down and going outside doesn't hold the same risks as it does when the sun is up, mainly the risk of killing oneself because it is so insufferably hot outside that all quality of life has left for Alaska. Since we taught her how to go in and out without our help, aiding in our goal of never having to actually get off the couch while we're home, Molly utilizes this skill and goes in and out roughly 56 times a night. She goes out, comes in panting and tired, takes a gulp of water and goes back out. Over and over and over.
It's hot out, have I mentioned that?, so even before you add the pregnancy exhaustion to our house, we're slow and sluggish these days and Molly is no exception. Yes she gets her skinny ass off the couch to play outside but "playing" consists of slowly walking around the yard, hoping a squirrel will die of heat exhaustion, fall out of the tree above her and into her open, panting mouth.
You can imagine our surprise, then, when after 46 times of going in and out like a normal, exhausted dog the other night, Molly came HAULING ASS into the house, ran around every piece of furniture we own (granted, not a lot of pieces) and then went batshit insane, pulling leaves off household plants and making odd, wild noises.
Mike turned to me, after we both watched her with mouths wide open, and said, "Babe, I think she's high."
Now, I don't know if we have mushrooms in our yard or if we have some other type of mood-altering plant growing, and I'll even admit I don't know much about being high, but I do know something about handling crises poorly and that's this: WHEN IN DOUBT, FREAK THE HELL OUT.
Instead of giving her a big bowl of food and water (like Mike did) and locking the back door to keep her inside the rest of the night (like Mike did) and watching her carefully while not seeming too concerned (again, Mike), I gathered her into my lap and forced her to snuggle with me for much longer than the high-as-a-kite vizsla would have liked. But I'll be damed if I was going to allow that dog to die without knowing how much I adore her. Oh, and then I got up every hour that night to make sure she was still alive.
Scene:
Molly, laying very still and peaceful on her bed, covered with a blanket.
Me: MOLLY! MOLLY! GET UP!
Molly, raising her head to look at me with deep annoyance.
Me: Oh good, you're alive. Go back to sleep.
Repeat twenty times.
Something tells me we'll get to recreate this night the first time our kid comes home from a party thrown by some kid whose parents left town and trusted him with the house and the liquor cabinet. Can't wait.
*****************
In other news, Mike and I had come fairly close to choosing a boy's name: Parker. Mike loved it, I was definitely coming around. Then I saw this. There is no way in hell I am naming my child the same name CLAY AIKEN decided on for his cover-up baby. Back to the drawing board.