Stop Bed Bugging Me

In my world the most valuable real estate I own is…

My mattress.

Sure, a condo overlooking Central Park would be delightful. A beach house in Hawaii would be delicious.

After all, House Hunters International is one of my favourite programs, even though I always pick the house no one wants.

But in the end, wherever I lay my ass, that's my home.

Over the last few weeks I've fought a nightly battle for mattress space with Newman.

It wasn't suppose to be this way. I fully expected to vie for millimetres of cozy mattress comfort with my wife. I have a solid military plan to combat this. I can't go into details, for security reasons, but it involves special forces: pizza, wings, chili dogs, beer, and what my body does with those foods.

Newman is an entirely different enemy. This IS asymmetrical warfare at its most challenging.

Newman begins his bedtime with my daughter, pretty much because my daughter forces him there. My daughter can be quite commanding when she needs to be. I still think she has a bright future water-boarding ISIS members.

Newman keeps a watchful eye on my daughter, snaps a paw in front of her eyes to ensure she's asleep, and darts over to my bed. Onto the mattress he melts. Usually I am on my side with my knees bent, as if sitting in a chair, and Newman moulds his bendy little body into the space around my legs.

At first it's a graceful kind of sleeping "dance". Like Astaire and Rogers taking a nap. Give it two hours and it turns to Jekyll and Hyde. Or perhaps like a half-played Jenga game – one brick away from the 9/11 of entertainment.

Newman lays his 35 pound carcass onto my legs. Is this how Jimmy Hoffa went? Weighted down into the ocean, never to be seen again. I cling to the hope that Jimmy is still alive, changed his last name to Dean and sells faux sausages in supermarkets across North America.

I try to lift my legs against this hideous weight. My stomach muscles say no! After several hours of sleeping perpendicular to the mattress, well, it hurts.

Then I try a classic war strategy – the pincer move. I squeeeeze with both legs. Newman farts and gets even more comfortable.

Newman is the Trojan dog. Cute on the outside, a monstrous consumer of real estate on the inside.

It becomes an episode of Greatest Tank Battles.

Morning arrives. Newman – "Yo, Paul. Buddy. You look tired." Not a hint of irony in these words.

Cue caffeine drip.

Night comes again. I'm in Groundhog Day, or rather, Night. Everything repeats. Grounddog Night if you like.

Next morning. Cue Sonny and Cher.