The thought of cartwheeling into bed fully dressed has its appeal. But I opt for the more responsible choice of washing my face, brushing my teeth, and putting on pajamas. This nighttime ritual is performed in haste, for taking too long has consequences.

My dogs are needy but responsible for their own inner peace. As they pace and pant, I calmly remind them to find their Zen. “Settle the f**k down!” I shout. “And DO NOT get on the bed!”

The dogs have memory foam beds with 5,000 thread-count Egyptian cotton covers, bolsters, and thickly woven blankets. But they choose to sleep with me. To secure a decent spot, I race to get into bed first.

Tonight’s  added attraction is fresh bedding. Dogs find the allure of clean sheets irresistible and fiercely compete for territorial dominance. Preparing for a hostile takeover, the pheromone-spreading beasts rub their faces on the mattress perimeter. The circling land sharks are preparing to strike.

When Timber-the-tumor makes a move to overtake the bed, the bedtime battle has begun. She leads the charge as other dogs fall in suit, pending cue from their fearless leader.

Timber’s long-legged self could easily walk onto the mattress, but she spins like a whirling dervish, building up momentum for a dramatic triple gainer. A built-in heat seeking navigation system allows her to accurately identify her target. After performing a diving crossbody maneuver, she hits my midsection with a thud. Rendered helpless while enveloped in a weighted meat blanket, I struggle to escape my canine captor.

Even the most physically robust individual doesn’t possess enough strength to remove Timber when she settles in for the night. And settle in, she does. Squeezing under the covers and rolling into a tight ball, Timber’s head rests comfortably on my pillow. If she were sprinkled with raisins, she’d resemble an 80-lb cinnamon bun.

With eyes tightly shut, Timber pretends not to hear my plaintive cries of “OFF!” The headstrong hound hunkers down into concrete mode, increasing her body weight ten-fold while pinning me to the bed.

I cannot move and can no longer feel my lower extremities. Timber’s trusty accomplice, Trooper, is sleeping on my legs, cutting off circulation. When I finally break free and try to stand, my gangrenous feet fall off.

Banal commands prove ineffective.  If I’m ever to sleep again, I must deploy some good old-fashioned ingenuity. Something to catch them off-guard. I’m not talking about ringing the doorbell sending them scattering while nailing plywood over the bedroom door. Pfft! That’s for amateurs!

It’s time for full-scale psychological warfare.

Reaching into the nightstand drawer, I remove a defensive mechanism. With steady hand, I take aim towards the mattress, discharging my weapon with the push of a button. The nuclear charged device sends a shockwave through the bed and an explosion of surprised Malinois levitate, fleeing the room.

Victorious, I place the bed remote on the nightstand. The seldom used massage feature does little to amend sore muscles but is an ingenious tool for scaring dogs. Snuggling under the covers, I smile contentedly. Unshackled from a pretzel position, I stretch out, take in a glorious breath of freedom, and fall into blissful slumber.

For five-minutes.

I’m awakened by my bladder but can’t risk leaving my post. I shall wait it out. I wait, and wait, and wait. But I can’t outlast the call of nature and reluctantly shuffle to the bathroom. Minutes later, I reverse my steps and stumble gracelessly through the darkness.

In my brief absence, the dogs rallied, formed a coup, and seized the bed as their own. I flip on the light to find four dogs on the bed, along with several others I don’t recognize. My clean sheets are defiled, the remote has been chewed up, and my spirit has been broken.

Hanging my head in transitory surrender, I submissively schlep to the couch, where the dogs are already waiting.