Early every morning, the pug comes into our room and paws at my side of the bed for me to lift him up. It’s too high for him to jump — the top of the bed’s about four feet off the ground.
This morning I leaned over and hoisted him like I always do, but instead of the dog ending up on the bed, I went over the side and almost decapitated myself on the corner of the nightstand, on the way to a hard meeting with Mister Floor.
“It’s okay,” my wife said. “Try again tomorrow.”
The dog was unharmed. He’s not fat but a modest weight reduction program may be in the cards for him . . .