Mia is our five-year old mutt. We rescued her from South Carolina as a puppy. If the DNA test is to be believed, she's a Pitbull/Terrier/Chow Chow mix (don't ask). She's the sweetest thing on earth and we all melt every time we see her.
But she's turned into a f'n diva.
It's our fault. We make life too easy for her. Check out her crate/bed sitch below:
Her dog bed is impossibly soft and lush and the two extra thick blankets keep her all sorts of warm and cozy on these chilly winter nights.
But apparently, that's not enough for her.
She lasts all of ten minutes burrowed in her crate before she starts looking for better. Better is under the blankets at the foot of our bed. Until she nearly suffocates and needs to escape. When she does, she stomps on our faces and our nether regions. She crashes on the floor in a heap until she's cold again.
Rinse and repeat.
Five times a night, minimum.
It's my fault. I raise the blankets enough so she can easily jump in. It beats attempting to ignore her stubborn cries. Even if I have to assume the fetal position to avoid resting my legs on her long, skinny body.
She reminds me of someone who enjoys hopping between a hot tub and pool. Get hot, jump in pool. Get cold, back to hot tub.
We know we have to break the cycle. But then that g-damn cute face stares at you through the light of the moon. And we put up with it again.
I've come to pawn her off on the kids at night so we get a break. But by 5:00 am, she's ready to break free and rejoin us. My son just opens his door, releases the little devil and saunters back to bed. We get the cry at the door and by the time one of us has opened the door, she's standing on our bed and pawing at the blankets.
It's so cute.