Weighted Blanket: Now Available in Fur and Drool
In my dream, I was waist-deep in a river, the cool water flowing over me like waves of healing magic. The dogs sat solemnly on the shoreline like furry lifeguards, eyes locked on me as though I might spontaneously forget how to float. A faint jingling drifted through the air, mysterious and alluring, and I waded toward it, curiosity tugging me forward. The sound grew louder, heavier, until my body felt weighted down with invisible chains—and then bam—my eyes snapped open.
Reality hit hard. The mystical chime wasn’t some enchanted river bell; it was Odin, body-slamming the front door to make sure I knew his bladder was urgently calling. Priority Level: Red Alert!
Still foggy from my dreamland eviction notice, I stumbled toward the door, phone in hand blinking at the ungodly time, 5 a.m. Freya trotted along behind me, tail wagging like this was the best pre-dawn party invite she’d ever received.
Outside, Odin began his sacred quest for the perfect spot. Freya, ever the efficient one, squatted immediately—mission accomplished. Odin, however, was on a whole other timeline: sniffing, shifting, eating grass, sniffing again, eating more grass, apparently auditioning for a cow impersonation contest. Finally, after dragging me across the yard like a reluctant sled, he found the one and relieved himself with the gravitas of a king staking his claim.
But wait—there was a sequel. Another sniff tour, another “is this the spot?” moment, another dramatic pause… and round two commenced. I looked away out of respect (and because, let’s be real—gross). At last, satisfied and significantly lighter, Odin transformed back into the gentleman he pretends to be. We walked under the moonlight, Freya happily bouncing along, Odin trotting as though he hadn’t just staged the world’s longest bathroom drama.
And really—how could I be mad? When you gotta go, you gotta go. The older I get, the more I understand that universal truth.
Once home, the dogs scarfed down their breakfast like tiny vacuum cleaners with tails, and today’s meal came with a bougie twist: fresh papaya and kiwi—two of their absolute favorites. Spoiled? Absolutely. Regretful? Not one bit. With bellies full, they flopped nearby, supervising me with the judgmental stares of royalty while I cleaned the bedroom in preparation for the RV Tech: Lynn. The man. The myth. The legend. In my world, he’s the RV backer-upper god, and today’s divine task was installing a dryer vent. And if I could charm him into it, maybe—just maybe—convincing him to tackle the bidet that has been sitting in my bathroom for a month, mocking me daily. After the infamous kitchen water fiasco of my last DIY project, I’ve sworn off plumbing heroics—especially when it involves the throne. Some gambles just aren’t worth it.
With the space tidied, Odin and I claimed the recliner for our sacred ritual: morning snuggles paired with my first cup of life-giving coffee. I sipped, he sighed, and I typed, capturing the magic of my morning before the chaos of the workday rolled in. Thirty minutes left until the the work day came knocking—still, I felt grateful for the gift of working from home, dogs at my feet and caffeine in my veins.
The morning drifted by in a blur of meetings. I floated from one Teams meeting into the next, managing to be mostly on time . At lunch, each dog got their own solo adventure—sniff expeditions where they followed invisible scent-trails with the seriousness of FBI agents. When I dared cut the walks short to feed myself, I was met with the full range of canine side-eye and judgement. My peace offering? A juicy plum, which they devoured like it was a gift from the universe. Forgiveness achieved.
As my air fryer worked its crispy magic, I granted them each ten minutes of sacred lap time. Odin, ever the spa client, melted under my fingers as I massaged his forehead, eyebrows, and nose. His eyes half-closed, he looked one head scratch away from deep sleep. Meanwhile, my own stomach was growling like a grumpy dragon. I really shouldn’t have gone this long without food, but personal procrastination is my toxic trait.
By early afternoon, silence still hung over my phone. The RV tech was missing in action, and my dryer vent dreams felt fragile. I hovered over my phone, tempted to call, but decided to give it one more hour before I transformed into the bug buzzing in his ear.
The workday finally ended with a victorious laptop slam-shut and a deep sigh. Odin and Freya, who had spent the day loyally napping at my feet, instantly came to life—tails wagging, bodies wiggling, and eyes sparkling in celebration. They knew what I knew: freedom.
We headed outside for a potty break, and the air played a cruel trick. It felt cooler, teasing that fall might be near, though I knew Texas still had weeks of relentless sauna-mode left. Still, I let myself daydream about crisp air, bird migration, and finally putting the gazebo to proper use. The swamp cooler had failed us miserably, but once autumn arrived, that gazebo would be my kingdom: work-from-home throne, gaming headquarters, maybe even hammock central. Hurry up, sweater weather.
That night, I hopped online with my gaming family for some laughs and conversation before calling it early. Freya stretched herself the full length of me, head resting sweetly on my heart. Odin followed, pressing into my side like a living, drooling heat pack. All three of us crammed into one recliner—an engineering mystery—but somehow it worked. Ninety pounds of fur, slobber, and unconditional love blanketing me like the world’s weirdest weighted blanket. Perfect.
Just as I was drifting toward sleep, I thought again about the no-show RV tech. I gave him grace, figuring the Texas heat had him buried in jobs. And then—crash! Something clattered across the roof, followed by hollow clonks that could have been anything from raccoon breakdancing to a cat’s midnight parkour session.
Instantly, Odin and Freya transformed into bodyguards, hackles raised, barking and growling as though a full-scale invasion had begun. Protective, yes. Gentle? No. They squished me like furry boulders in their heroic display. After a perimeter sweep deemed the area secure, they returned, expecting immediate reinstatement of lap privileges. I declined, retreating instead to the wooden platform bed where I stretched out under the star-gazing window to drift off to sleep under the stars and tree branches.
Of course, they followed. And with more space available than ever, you’d think they’d pick a cozy corner of their own. Nope. Where’s the fun in that? In true Odin and Freya style, they sprawled over me, Freya snoring sweetly into my ear, Odin anchoring my side. I watched the last streaks of cream and blue fade from the sky, the branches outside silhouetted against the night, reaching up toward the stars.
Messy, ridiculous, wonderful—that was my day.
Lessons of the Day
Dreams can be peaceful rivers… until they turn into 5 a.m. pee alarms.
Fall in Texas is a mythical creature that only teases before vanishing.
Recliners may look like furniture, but in RV life they’re family bunk beds.
Ninety pounds of fur is heavy… until you call it love, then it’s just warm.
Roof crashes are nature’s way of reminding you that cats and raccoons throw better parties than you do.
Dogs don’t believe in “personal space,” only “shared space that’s entirely yours but also entirely theirs.”
Weighted blankets are nice; weighted blankets that drool are unforgettable.
Messy, loud, furry chaos is just another way of spelling joy.
Papaya and kiwi: five-star dining if you have four paws and a tail.
Meetings may blur together, but a plum bribe can save your reputation with your dogs.
