I envy people who can fall asleep and stay asleep. No matter how exhausted I am, when I finally fall into bed, I have a tough time sleeping through the night.

There are dog beds smattered about the house, but the largest of the pack sleeps on top of us. He’s not content to simply be on the bed. No. He must own the bed, somehow making himself four-times his size and twice as heavy. My legs lock tightly into pretzel formation as I cling desperately to the edge of the mattress, gnarled hands keeping me from tumbling to the floor. Sadly, my hands and feet are the only things to fall asleep.

My head contorts into an unnatural position as it bobs around, searching for the support of a pillow. I blindly reach into the darkness and touch a big wet nose and stout head resting comfortably on my missing pillow. I vaguely remember him rolling in something today; though as I struggle to remember what it was, I decide that not knowing is better.

I like a completely dark house. No annoying phantom lights glowing from every corner and every crevice of the room. And I like quiet. And by quiet I mean that I don’t want to hear anyone licking their butt, paws, dingle dangles, hoo-ha, or anything else. When a dog licks themselves in a quiet house in the dead of night, the sound is greatly amplified; thus becoming an eternal echo of slurping, gulping, and lip-smacking revulsion.

When I absolutely can’t take it anymore, I sit bolt upright and yell, “STOP LICKING!” The noises subside, and peace is temporarily restored. I fall back into blissful slumber.

Minutes later, the quiet is again interrupted by an intermittent high-pitch scream emanating from somewhere in the room. I get up to  investigate and slow my breathing to listen. The culprit is now silent, so I return to bed.

It starts again.

I get up and walk around the darkened house, stopping to investigate each shadow, each sound. If I find the source and quiet it, I may be able to sleep. Nothing. I return to bed, defeated, more tired than before.

The recurrent scream has now morphed into a whistle that I hear when I exhale. I realize that the sound is coming from my nose and can only be eradicated by blowing it. I reach toward the nightstand for a tissue, only to find an empty box. Up again to replenish the tissue and blow my nose. All is well with the world, and I return to a horizontal position.

Tossing from my back to my side, stomach, side, and back again, only leaves me in a tangled mess, rolled into a blanket-wrapped burrito.  The dog is now rolled up with me, staring deeply into my eyes, and I surrender to the fact that I am completely immobile. But all is quiet, and I am thankful.

Then the snoring begins.

I can usually tap my husband on the back and ask him to roll over. But I can’t move. Arms bound at my side, I am enveloped in a flour tortilla with an eighty-pound Belgian Malinois, jarring bursts of rancid dog breath hitting my face. Did he eat whatever he rolled in? I force myself to think of other things.

As my mind dances and my eyes try to focus on a moth flitting about, the cacophonous orchestra begins. The nose flute is followed by wheezing and snorting from the wind instruments, and finally, measured licking sounds reverberating from somewhere in the house. The appliances have chimed in as well, adding to the discordant ensemble. The refrigerator emits a haunting sound, akin to the amorous cry of a red fox during mating season. And not to be outdone, the water softener has decided to go on a 60 minute cleanse of its internal organs. Poor thing. It sounds painful.

When I have depleted every ounce of energy struggling to free myself, I relax and accept my unfortunate circumstances, finally falling into a deep sleep.

The sun is just peeking up over the horizon. As my eyes are coaxed open by glaring light slicing through curtainless windows,  I look at the clock. I’ve been asleep exactly thirty-minutes. A new record.

Another day arrives. Another battle is lost. I drag my tired carcass out of bed and concede defeat. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.