Life With Arlo: Bedtime Edition

I've toyed with the idea of creating an Instagram for Arlo, but I can barely keep up with my own social media and know he'll be of little help in the matter since he doesn't even have opposable thumbs. Therefore, I've decided to instead focus the occasional blog entry on my rambunctious Airedale. Even though it's currently 9:30 in the morning, a brief explanation of bedtime with Arlo seems a good place to start.

Arlo loves bedtime. It may, in fact, be his favorite time of the day. He's quite good at it too! Before calling it a night, he always requests to use the potty first. This involves incessantly ringing the jingle bell that hangs on the knob of the back door, throwing himself against the door, and barking as loud as he can until someone (me) opens the door. He then takes off into the night, racing through the yard with the speed of a cheetah! He darts from one side of the property to the other, destroying hosta and larkspur and any other wilderness that stands in his way! Rabbits quake in his presence; owls are thankful for their wings. If Arlo is aware of the disturbance he causes, he seems not to notice: he's on a mission to mark the base of every tree, shrub, and grassblade before calling it a night.

Back inside, the jovial fellow receives a "cookie" for being so good. Nearly as exciting as the prospect of a good romp on the property, he's quite vocal about this particular practice. There's a fair bit of barking and some showing off; he lies down on command and his tail wags at an alarmingly fast rate. Augusta, his much calmer sister, is somehow able to accept her treat with much less ado. She scampers obligingly to her crate and snuggles up inside, nibbling on her bedtime snack and settling in for the night. Arlo, on the other hand, swallows his cookie whole and turns to me expectantly, believes himself deserving of a second one. (He often receives this).

For reasons I no longer remember, Arlo does not sleep in a crate, and whereas Augusta loves her little cave, her brother prefers an area where he can sprawl out. Like, for example, in the middle of my mattress.

With Arlo, however, it's never a matter of simply going to bed. Nope. First, he and Harvey have to partake in a rousing game of chase. The involves Harvey hiding under my bed and sticking his little white paws from beneath the dust ruffle, swiping at his canine friend. Arlo, good sport that he is, darts from one side of the bed to the other, snapping his jaws and barking playfully. If left to him, the game would last all night, but Harvey, being a superior creature, eventually loses interest and focuses his attention elsewhere. Coincidentally, so does my Airedale.

As I brush my teeth and wash my face, Arlo attempts to steal things from the bookcase beside my bed. His favorite thing is a small tube of Neosporin. He likes to dig this out of a basket on one of the middle shelves and hold it secretively in his mouth, looking at me from the side of his eye in a way that suggests "What? I don't have anything." His tastes aren't confined to topical medications, though; he also loves lotion, TV remotes, and used tissues. These are what I like to refer to as his "bedtime appetizers" because once I actually crawl under the covers, the menu changes.

A sucker for all things tiny, when I brought Harvey home to the family, Arlo was more intrigued by the new kitten toys than he was the kitten. He has an affinity for jingle-bell balls and fuzzy mice and often brings one (or both) to bed with him. Before chewing them to pieces, he tosses them in the air and rolls on his back, emitting strange guttural grunts and groans. Every now and again, he becomes so enraptured by the activity that he falls off the mattress. Fortunately, he is hard-headed and largely invincible; never once has the sudden drop to the hardwood floor below caused him injury.

When the lights are turned off, that's when the fun really begins. This is when Arlo can effectively sneak items into bed. His first order of business is always the drain cover I keep on the floor of the tub. With all the stealth of a two-ton elephant, he prances into the bathroom, nudges aside the shower curtain with his long snout, and clumsily enters the tub. The clickety-clack of his nails is quite audible in the quiet house; so is his graceless exit and fast-paced scamper back to the bedroom. Since he's not especially good at jumping, a running start is required to hoist himself onto the mattress and then onto me. Curling at the foot of the bed, he holds the drain cover in his mouth and pretends to be a good boy. The following conversation generally ensues:

Me: Arlo, give me the drain cover.

Arlo: ...

Me: Arlo, drop it. Drop it, Arlo.

Arlo: ...

Me: Arlo...

Arlo: [slowly loosens his jaw to release the rubber covering]

Me: Thank you.

Moments later, a similar occurrence takes place when he steals the toilet paper from the bathroom and brings that to bed as well. Or, if a new and delightfully intriguing addition has been made to the trash can in my studio, we may be graced by the presence of a discarded scrap of paper or the plastic wrapping from a canvas. It's always an adventure.

Fortunately, he does eventually settle down. Resting his head on the pillow beside mine, he settles in. If I move, he growls. If I bump him, he growls. If I reach over to give his velvety ears a scratch, he growls with contentment. And then, approximately ten minutes later, he relocates to the couch.

And that, my friends, is bedtime with Arlo.