Dogs live to be in the forbidden guest room

The thing I love about dogs is that they live in the moment. I know there are cat lovers out there too, but I feel that cats, who are smart and worldly, know just a little too much about my personal life.

But dogs are like the poster child for whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Whatever happened five minutes ago is long forgotten, forgiven and forever lost in a brain the size of a walnut. Don’t get defensive now; I say this with all due respect, since my own brain is only as big as a cashew. That memory loss includes admonishments about getting on the couch, barking over and over again at the sliding patio doors, and stealing loaves of bread off the counter.

And that’s just my memory loss. For dogs, the look you’ll get is always who, me?

Recently, I visited my granddogs, a Golden Retriever the size of the state of Ohio with the attitude of someone who has just won the Miss America crown, and a Black Lab who is built like a building that could house an NBA team.

As soon as I pulled into the driveway, they rounded the corner behind the house and put on the brakes; one look at the luggage and they realized they had hit the dog jackpot: treats, guest bedroom and best of all, no rules! Only baby talk would ruin that dream. Contrary to popular belief, dogs really despise baby talk.

Between the joyous sobbing and throwing themselves on the ground, I made a break for it. I reached the back door before they pulled themselves together and realized that I wouldn’t be used as a tackling dummy. The two posed outside the window like innocents seen on the family Christmas card. You know the card where they are all dressed alike and the dog is forced to wear one of those Norwegian sweaters.

But it’s all worth it when Nan, as they call me, arrives. Because now it’s the one time they get to go into the guest bedroom. And dogs live to go into this forbidden room and sleep on the forbidden bed.

But Nan will let us because, well, as they’ve learned, she is clueless.

And so we make our way up the stairs, jostling and shoving with tails wagging to the coveted place. And that’s just me.

Seriously, they are leading the charge like General Patton commanding the tanks in the African desert.

They will look over their shoulders every now and then to make sure I’m following them; they’ve seen my feeble attempts to try to program a GPS.

Once in the guest bedroom, they pretend they are uninterested, looking at their nails, all the while contemplating what joys come out of that suitcase. Oh, not food, but real boss stuff like shoes.

And guests always bring great shoes to chew on because dogs know that house guests want to look their best.

So there is plenty of stuff to gnaw on when they go out to dinner. And those stilettos are like manna from heaven; they last forever.

But the real treat comes late into the night. The master plan is simple. House guests have to go to the bathroom during the night. It’s a given at this age; there may be multiple trips. And that means the house guests will be groggy as they grope their way in those stupid, stupid pajamas.

And so it is that I always find myself in the morning, curled in a fetal position, occupying one square inch of the bed. The rest is taken up by enormous mounds of snoring canines, comfortable in the knowledge that I would never rat them out. Whoever sneaks in forbidden guest rooms to fall asleep on heavenly 300 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, stays in Vegas. At least in the dog world.