Sick as a dog. In comes the doxie. For better for worse. In sickness and in health.

There are those sweet and selfless beings. The only ones so incredibly happy that you’re stuck at home, miserably sick. They aren’t your people. But you are theirs.

I’m not suitable for public consumption. I can’t get out of bed. Can’t talk. Or walk. Or breathe. Bed bound.

The Mount Hood peak of wadded tissues, volcanic overflow up and over the trash can. Wadded papers stacked up like a week’s worth of writer’s block per day.

Only worse – way worse.

Crumpled tissues with parts of me wrapped around them. Not given, but taken. Expelled. Violently removed. Sneezing and coughing and nose blowing. No, not blowing, more like blow torching. Body shaking violent eruptions. Mt Hood going off. Or is it St. Helens?

Overflowing trashcans; a four Kleenex box day.

Way worse than textbook virus. Not nose running, or sniffles or coughing. All of that, and more, on steroids. Must be why the doc gave me steroids, to counteract my body’s bizarre over response to a flu bug attack. It's spring - allergy season, too.

Body shaking, rattling, racking, uncontrollable coughs that tear into lungs and passageways. Ripped open, against their will. Bruising cells, now flooding with viral gunk. Disgusting junk. Way worse than baby poo, diarrhea on diapers, normal people call rough stuff.

Profoundly ill. Inhuman conditions. The kind another human can’t tolerate.

The kind a sick human would never ask another human to.

Alone in the house. Sick house - the kind no normal being enters voluntarily. A good friend drops off homemade soup, but understandably leaves it on the porch. This is not a moment of intimacy people like to share.

In comes the doxie.

For better for worse. In sickness and in health.

Nurse doxie Doodle.    Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDairy.org

Burrowing in, elbowing along, dragging his stomach, inching up the bed, like sneaking up on prey. Pulling himself along the length of my body, from my toes up to my nose.

Jumps up to my head, propped up in bed. Wraps his arms around my neck, paws on skin. Looks deep into my eyes - his, glistening bright. Mine, dull and dim.

One quick lick to my cheek. Not an annoyingly long submissive thing I couldn’t stand, even on a good day. Just a kiss. Not noticing I’m sick as a dog. Or maybe just because?

My doxie noses in, under the tangle of blankets and pillows and body parts. Finding an opening. under covers, through the gunk and the wracked, soggy, disgusting mass of former humanity curled up like a dog. Finds a crevice that he can ooze into that will expand out to let him press full body against mine, between legs and stomach and sharing soft, warm body heat like a doxie hot water bottle, soothing and sweet as if sweet was even an option right now. I’d go for tolerable or even one percent less than inhumane. And then sweet noses in.

My son, my Doodle. Full body contact as if I’m not really a leper. Pressing his cute little shiny orange butt up against my jammies. Curly q tail wrapping around my thigh like even it wants so desperately to embrace me.

And now we’re snoring together. Wow, sweet snoring at last. I can’t sleep, so any catnap will do. Even 10 minutes of rest is a welcome change of fate.

Cutest little nuzzle buddy ever! Doodle.    Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDiary.org

Why do they call it sick as a dog?

Back in the 1700’s, people would just let homeless dogs die in the street. They were not welcome in neighborhoods or homes – never in beds, not for centuries. Nor were they given medical attention. Outcasts. Bad luck was blamed on dogs, sick and wandering the streets. In misery.

Seems like we’ve come full circle here.

Now I’m the miserable one, the down dog he’s catering to. He’s the one I adopted off the streets. Or is it the other way around? If this isn’t medical attention, I don’t know what is.

I love my dog. So profoundly glad he loves me too.

And when he’s worked his magic on me, that cat takes over baby-sitting duties.

And at some point in the distant future, I’ll be suitable for human interaction.

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Cat and dog politics: neither side winning - or needing to. Maybe we could learn something here.

Left and right. Red and blue. Us and them... the baggage of humans.

Dogs don’t do politics. That’s what we love most about them.

They don't take sides - nor do they care about all that human psycho babble.

They do care about whose in charge.

They don’t debate. Or criticize.

They're too busy chasing life, chasing tails, romping trails. Getting blow dried on the road trip of life.

They aren’t hung up on news or Twitter, reading the latest titillating story about a porn star and a US President.

They love you unconditionally, even when you don't deserve it.

They may be smarter than humans, despite what scientists say. They're way more intuitive.

You think you can hide your feelings, but they just know. And love you anyway.

They don’t press your buttons. They stand by you until you get outside yourself. For some of us, that could take a lifetime.

Dogs don’t do Twitter. Well, maybe they do. This is dog Twitter:

“soft warm body pressed up against yours – no words necessary.”

You think you can stay away long hours on trips out of town when the dog sitter takes over. You think they won’t notice. They reward you with a bounce up and down welcome home ceremony. And the top-secret mini poo pile, just this side of the dog door.

I went from four dogs to two. One is a fake dog. 

Doodle and Tia - of Surf Dog Diaries.    Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDiary.org

Tia the kitty would be really catty on Twitter. But she’s dropping the cat act and turning into a dog.

These days, the cat and the dog are ascending breed restrictions. Ignoring their owner’s manuals, and politics, or lack thereof. They are fast becoming (admittedly tentatively, perhaps warily) pack partners.

They are the last two remaining dog pack members after a rough year, losing two aging bassets of the family.

The cat has arisen to the role of Alpha. Or co-alpha.

She is first to take possession, within 30 seconds of me sitting or lying down. She always beats the doxie to my lap. She does it effortlessly. Strategically.

At best now, Doodle snuggles up alongside, his butt up against her chest. His curly cue tail spirally wrapping around my leg. Or carefully nosing up near the stiletto nails of Tia. Some random body part of dog splayed over my leg. Or inching closer, under covers, as if the cat won’t notice.

Sometimes she rubs her head against his…  like she really loves him… but none of us totally trusts that. Sometimes I wonder if that head rub isn’t some subtle game of kitty bumper car. She is a politician.

Doodle has that wild-eyed look like, please don’t throw a sucker punch at me. But he persists. And that has, in turn, softened the cat.

OK, so maybe just a hint of sibling rivalry....                        Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDiary.org

She snuggles up under covers as quickly as Doodle does. Maybe even with him.

She has descended from cat throne to dog behavior. Fuzzy lovingness.

She has evolved into a dog.

Just when I was looking for a lap basset online at the shelter, the lap basset appeared.

I would say there’s a war going on for my attention but it’s more like detente. Fragile, hesitant teamwork. Like long-warring parties coming together to pass some really important legislation, creating social change. Like banning assault rifles or ending the war on immigration. Or some other Hatfield and McCoy thing that’s gone on for years.

People stuck in the middle. Two sides. No one winning.

Here, the two “dogs” aren’t entirely trusting each other, but are actually trying to work together - and meet in the middle.

Sharing goals. Getting more love. Figuring out that working together, they both get what they really want – they just don’t exclude the other partner. They may make some critter concessions, but on the grand scale, nothing worth quibbling over.

Maybe this is a long, ugly custody battle over me, that just took a positive turn?

The cat, unlike the dog, is a much more political animal.

She’s into power and isn’t always soft and fuzzy – or is, but usually with a purpose. She likes the Alpha role. She likes being on top. Pole position. Lap cat. But she wasn’t always in charge.

The dog just wants to be there. Be lap dog. He’s into power, but in an effusive, gimme some luvin' hippy-yippee kinda way.

Doodle bumbles in as if to take over the lap and the house and the pack. Guess what? He thought he was Alpha too. There’s an absence of clear power without someone in charge. 

It’s the two party system. Dog vs. Cat. Balance of power.

Neither has veto power. But they both flex themselves periodically, when it’s really important.

I feel like I am the prize. At the same time, a voter stuck between sides. Like an average everyday citizen that two parties are fighting for. Two parents fighting over a kid.

And when the dog and cat drop their breed restrictions and put down their owner's manuals, they blend into one. One species. Curled up, yin and yang. Spooning, with me underneath. Me, in between. Everyone wins. No one’s in charge. Just the three of us as one.

Being in charge is so over rated. There’s nothing we wouldn’t do for each other. And funny thing - this wasn't possible, not for this cat and this dog, with a full pack of dogs in the house.

Elvis, my dearly departed Alpha Basset, Big Man on Campus, was always in charge.

He loved the cat and together, they were one. They snuggled together - but not over me. They were total bff’s. No war for top dog between them. Everyone got along.

Now that Elvis is gone, and his twin basset brother too, the little pain-in-the-butt Dennis the Menace doxie, my Doodle, wanted so badly to lead our pack. To assume Alpha. One and only dog of the family. But he hasn’t earned the cred that Elvis had.

Elvis was king, without even trying.

Dude was the same age and might have challenged Elvis for top dog. Instead, he went blind. And became a lap basset. He gave up on Alpha long ago. We miss him with all of our hearts, but he never made it to top dog. He easily could have.

He was top dog years ago, back when he still had eyes. He won awards in surf dog contests. He competed - and won - against other dogs, but never his own pack.

Dude, the blind surf pirate and Elvis, my two basset hound sons, RIP.  Second and third generation surf dogs of Surf Dog Diaries.                   Photo: (c) Barb Ayers, DogDiary.org

Dude was bff’s with Elvis. Everyone was. Alpha Elvis wasn’t kingly. He was a love buddy.

Now that the sweet and strong and loving basset brothers are surfing the heavens, we’re down to two “dogs” and those two have expanded to fill the void. The calico and the doxie.

The 50% smaller pack allows the two remaining dogs to grow into themselves. They’ve expanded into me. And just maybe, they've expanded into each other. Even though they’d never admit it.

Number two and number three try harder. Now together, they share #1.

They seem to be co-Alphas.

Parents. Partners. The third, neutral party.

It’s a whole new era in our home in the absence of basset hounds.

The two remaining dogs may not be tri-colored low rider bassets, with silly-sad faces. Stand-up comedians with basset-hound-hearts-on-sleeves (which we all terribly miss.) But the remaining animals are surprisingly able to evolve.

I wonder if I can. If we can – the human species?