Bedtime Story

My eyes awakened to the dark shadows of my bedroom; it’s too early to get up for school. No, the alarm that woke me is of a more internal nature. My bladder was full and needed draining, and yet despite its urgency, I refrain from getting out of bed for one simple reason: there is a monster living under my bed. Laugh if you must, but I know with absolute certainty that he’s there. Have I seen him? Well…no. But I don’t have to see the wind to know when it is trying to wrestle my kite away from me. The same holds true of the monster. I can feel him under there, and there have been times when I’ll see a shadow move out of the corner of my eye that I know is him.

Even though he’ll try to get me if I get up, eventually my need to urinate proves to be too strong. I’d rather brave a kid-hungry monster than have to tell my mother that I wet the bed. I throw off the covers with a single sweep of my arm and hot the ground running. I’m in the bathroom as soon as my feet hit the cold wood floor; a journey of fifty feet is traveled in a literal blink of an eye. I should probably be studied by scientists in an effort to revolutionize the transport industry. I turn on the bathroom light (light after all is the one thing that monsters hate) and proceed to relieve myself. The wave of euphoria that floods over me banishes my anxiety, and for a few brief moments, my life is simple, happy, and free of monsters.

Alas, all things must come to an end, and once the toilet flushed, I was faced with the reality of my return trip to bed. I shut off the light and tiptoe back to my room, avoiding the creaky floor boards so that he can’t hear me coming. I stop just short of the doorframe to my room. This is it; the home stretch. It’s also the most dangerous part of the journey, because this is his domain. If he is going to get me, this is when he’ll do it. I hate this part. I’m not athletic. I’m just a fat kid with anxiety issues. God did not create me to co-habitat with bed monsters. I’m a lover, not a fighter. Monsters don’t feel love though. They live to lurk and to torture little kids like me. They want to get me. I don’t know what they’ll do after that, but I have zero interest in finding out. I won’t let him get that far.

The time is now or never. It’s either make it to bed and sleep until morning, or fail and suffer the slings and arrows of the demon beneath. It’s a scant eight feet to my bed, so I close my eyes, hold my breath, and take off running. One step, two steps, three steps, four…then with both legs, I leap for all I’m worth. The jump is the most important part. If your feet aren’t in the air for those last few feet, there is a 70% increase in the chances of the monster grabbing your ankles. I swing my arms to gain momentum, because falling short is not an option. My eyes are sealed shut because should I fail, I don’t want to see what will happen to me. They are jerked open however when my face smacks into the mattress with some force. Having outfoxed the beast yet again, I curl up under my covers and slowly drift off to sleep. I win this round, but the funny thing about urination is that I’ll have to go again sometime.

Fetch

Anyone who has ever owned a dog knows one thing about them: they love their stuff. There was one dog in my neighborhood named Byron. Byron was an English Bulldog; a lot of people don’t fancy the breed much, but I for one adore them. I especially adored Byron because I had known him from when I was in high school. I would always see him out for a walk by himself. His owners knew that he never got into trouble, so they just let him wander about as he pleased. The one way that everyone knew Byron was coming was the sound that he made. His favorite toy was a huge mahogany stick whose origins still elude me to this day. It was as long as he was, but that never stopped Byron from carrying it around with him, the one end dragging along behind that made a distinct scraping noise. It always made me laugh that I could hear Byron coming up the sidewalk before I ever saw him.

One afternoon, I was out washing my car when I hear the telltale drag of Byron and his stick. He saunters right up to me with that bulldog swagger and lets me pet him for a minute or two before continuing about his business. As I was somewhat bored with my chore, I decided to instead follow the dog (why I thought this was more entertaining than washing a car, I do not know). The subdivision I lived in was still under construction, and the newest addition was a small two day old pond that was so full of dirt and sediment that it was almost black. As it so happened, the pooch led me to the very bank of this nasty water feature. In the afternoon sun though, the pond shone like an obsidian mirror. I could see everything in its black surface. My thoughts were interrupted however by a sound I had never heard before: Byron was growling. In all the years I had known him, Byron had never made a peep except for his stick, but now he was staring straight into the pond and growling like he had just treed a raccoon. I crept up behind him in order to see what had the canine so agitated. I almost laughed out loud when I saw what it was: Byron was growling, stick still in mouth, at his own reflection. What was going through this pup’s head? Was he threatened by what he thought was another dog? Did he want the reflection’s stick because it looked as cool as his? Whatever the reason, what happened next almost broke my heart. Byron did the one thing he shouldn’t have done: he barked. The hickory stick fell from his mouth and splashed into the pond, disappearing into the murky water.

I didn’t see Byron as frequently after that day, and when I did, it was without that famous scraping sound. The dog walked slower and with less purpose, almost as though he was going through the motions, but had lost the passion for his patrol. After a while, he stopped coming by all together, and after I hadn’t seen him for a couple months, I was finally told that Byron was dead. From all accounts by his family, they just woke up one morning and found Byron in his doggy bed. He seemed to have gone peacefully, but I always wondered if he had been happy in those last weeks. Is it possible for a dog to die of a broken heart? I do know that I learned a lot from that mutt.