The Boy pulled the pin around 9:00 last night in preparation for his final day on the continental shift at work. The alarm goes off at 4:40 and he wants to be able to hit the ground running, so I don't blame him.

The only problem was Murphy; he didn't want to go to bed quite yet. He is relegated to the mean, nasty crate overnight due to his penchant for chewing anything and everything when not supervised. Oh, and his immature bladder. It's the bladder thing that got him the nickname Mr. Peabody, one which he apparently understands and is shamed by. We keep him in there for the sake of our sanities as well, something that made me feel a little guilty until our obedience class instructor told me it was better to lock the bugger away than kill him and have the inconvenience of digging that great big hole behind the garage. Especially in this heat.

So, he's barking. And barking. And calming down. Then whining, then barking. It's loud and shrill and there are these little tweeting noises incorporated which makes it virtually impossible to ignore. Every time The Boy would begin to drop off, Murph would start up again. Once 57 minutes of Murphy's barking and The Boy's violent curses had elapsed, I was more than ready to offer my assistance. I approached the crate carefully, trying to keep my fingers away from this mental dog who was clawing and scratching to get out and lick the hide off me. Once I got it open, he raced the up the stairs and waited at the door to the kitchen, his tail smacking against the ironing board and sounding like a wicked drum solo. After pinning him on the livingroom floor and explaining quietly in his ear that I was only allowing him to sleep in his bed tonight as a special favour, he calmed down, grabbed his B00da and hit the sheets. I hit the couch and laid there, listening in the dark for either pup to get up and try to pester The Boy. It was my job to nip that in the bud, but quick. Murph got away from me since he's so frail and light he doesn't even make the floorboards creak like pudgy Bailey. He didn't get in the door, but shook his head so violently beside it, it sounded like I was knocking. I would have laughed, except this roused The Boy and I feared his wrath as he glared at the three of us in the livingroom then made his way to the kitchen for a sleeping pill.

Eventually, everyone nodded off until Murph woke me around 1:00. I was going to kick his ass and send him to bed until I realized it would probably be in my best interests to let him out for a quick pee. I wasn't wrong; it was one of the longer pee sessions I've ever heard. He finished, came back to the door, up to his bed and slept through until the alarm went off. No mental antics this morning either, since I suspect the crate makes him think of all the places he'd been locked up before he came to live at Shangrila.

I unfortunately woke up with a wicked headache, one I've been unable to shake all day. I'm dangerously overmedicated and the damn thing is still banging away. My plans for some serious shoe and MP3 player window shopping have gone up in smoke, so I'm the tiniest bit cranky. We'll see if the recipe I've just downloaded for Crab Linguine soothes my savage beast.