Emma's Take

 

Hey, human folks. It’s me, Emma. (The dog.) I know my little human, Lorelei, told you about her going-to-bed resistance, and I must say, as a representative of the most stubborn dog breed ever, I admire her persistence. 

 

But I'm not so sure that my humans are doing this parenting thing correctly. I mean, it's understandable. Humans, unlike dogs, are so very deeply flawed.

And I do love them. If the dark-haired human, who seems to be named “Mommy,” comes within 30 feet of me, I can’t help but roll over for a belly rub. And that Man Human feeds me, though I’m not AT ALL crazy about this grain-free, poultry-free diet that sadistic veterinarian has convinced them I need. 

 Now, my Lorelei is terribly special to me. Sure, she mauls me, pulls my tail when Mommy isn’t watching, pokes at my eyes, steps in my water bowl, and plays with my ears. But she also snuggles me, pets me, hugs me, kisses me, talks to me, and yells “MY Emma” whenever I’m near, so I certainly belong to her. She is my alpha. I love her smell, I especially love her socks, and I love that she’s not much taller than me. 

But I do not love what Mommy and Man Human are doing during my Lorelei's bedtime.

I am my Lorelei's protector. When Mommy and my Lorelei read books at night, I jump up on her bed and look around to make sure everything is okay. Fortunately, it usually is, and I can even get a face rub out of it, which is, I admit, unbelievably enjoyable. Then I settle at the foot of my Lorelei's bed, on the pink loopy rug that feels SO good on my belly, and I GUARD.

Oh, sure, things SEEM fine at first. They sing songs and giggle (sometimes I wag my tail, too), they quietly snuggle (I, however, stay alert), and then Mommy kisses my Lorelei and says she loves her and . . . then the screaming commences.

“Mommy, stay with me!” my Lorelei wails as MOMMY JUST WALKS OUT OF THE ROOM. Can you believe it? Well, Opps and Hofmanns might think they have the big claim on stubbornness, but guess what?

I AM A BEAGLE.

So, I dig my paws into the carpet. I will NOT leave my crying Lorelei! I will not!

Alas, I’m only 28 pounds, so Mommy just hauls me out of there.

Then do you know what Mommy does? She holds the freaking door closed while Lorelei tries to escape! Lorelei screams louder, and I can see on the video monitor that Mommy is clutching that Lorelei has climbed back into bed, crying piteously.

I stare at Mommy in dog disbelief, which she ignores, much like my Lorelei's crying.

Mommy then sits outside my Lorelei’s door, sometimes with a cocktail (if Man Human is on his A-game), staring at the monitor. Me? I stare at MOMMY. I lay down, right in front of her, and STARE. I judge her. BAD MOMMY. BAD. Like, pooping-on-the-white-carpet BAD.

I try different Beagle looks. First, I try to glare, but I’m too cute to pull this off very successfully. So, I try cocking my head in mock confusion. “Mommy,” I try to say with my doggy face, “Can you not hear my Lorelei wailing?”

If Mommy still won’t budge, I go for the heartstrings. I sit right next to her, paw in her lap, and look up at her face, pleading with my big brown eyes, ears back. “Please?” I try to say. “Please make my Lorelei feel happy again?”

But no. Mommy just lets her cry and cry and cry.

Sometimes, an empathetic moan will escape my mouth. I mean, I’m practically human. I have feelings, too. But really, all I can do is stand guard outside my Lorelei’s door and stare judgmentally at Mommy, waiting for the wailing to stop.

After my Lorelei falls asleep, Mommy stays outside her door a bit longer, making sure she’s really down. You’d think I’d relax now, but no. A dog’s work is never done. At this point, I can see that Mommy, though relieved at the quiet, is sad at yet another night of our Lorelei crying herself to sleep. She leans against the door, a bit forlornly, so I slide up next to her and put my head in her lap. I might even lick her a little. And I look at her and try to let her know that even though she is a flawed person (all humans are), she’s still MY human. And I love her. 

About the Author

Emma Blossom Hofmann is a rescued beagle who lives in Maryland with her flawed yet loved humans. She enjoys searching out sun spots on the carpet, rolling in grass, and and playing War of the Wills when on a leash. This is her first blog post.