Morning Battle

Brenda sleeps on a brown bed on the floor near me, tethered to my bed leg. She likes to sleep. In fact, getting her out of bed in the morning has become a downright battle. It’s the only time that I am a little frightened of her. No matter how long it’s been since she last went pee, she protests when I bring the leash toward her in the am. It started out with her turning her head away but letting me clip on the leash still. Not too long ago the head turning into outright defiance. Her whole body went stiff and all four of her legs braced against the soft sides of her bed. She essentially became a living rock with huge scary teeth. It only took one long deep warning growl for me to back off.

Ever since, Ben has assumed the job of getting her out of bed and out the door for the first time each day—after I put a muzzle on her of course. It’s a sight, but one that’s made worse if I’m here so I can’t be a voyeur too often. When Ben drags Brenda out of bed it looks as if he’s breaking a wild horse, or performing an exorcism. Brenda flails around like a fish out of water, writhing, snarling and snapping. Ben tells her no. Sometimes she obeys, sometimes not. He tells me she’s getting better, calmer, more consistent in going peacefully with him.

After she’s on all four paws for half a second she’s ready to trot out the door. It’s just the moments between slumber and uprightedness that are problematic.

It’s not a battle I’m willing to fight. If I’m scared of Brenda I couldn’t take care of her properly.