Top Dog

I am the head of my household. I know this because it said so on my 2010 US Census form.

So why, if a semi-competent, quasi-governmental agency has declared me head of household, do I find myself sitting on an empty five gallon bucket in the garage watching football on my smartphone?

I don’t know how it happened, or when exactly. It was glacial in progression. First a chair. Then some food… a bed.

Our dog, Taffy, is a beloved and cherished member of the family. Taffy is a Yorkie Poo, emphasis on “Poo.” Though small in stature, she is held in equal – if not superior – esteem to the four humans with whom she cohabitates. As such, her comfort is of paramount importance to us all.

Taffy sleeps 21 hours a day. This is because she works hard. Originally bred as food for larger dogs, Yorkies have evolved into loyal pets and committed guardians. Taffy protects us not only from chipmunks and Ken dolls, but from vacuum sweepers and the German couple down the street.

My two young daughters have taken it upon themselves to ensure Taffy gets proper rest given the rigors of her day.

“Dad! You can’t sit [lie, stand, inhale, etc.] there. Taffy is sleeping!”

Poor Taffy. So put upon. So underappreciated.

“Taffy’s Chair,” is the leather recliner from which, like Mickey Mouse Merlin, I once compelled an endless panoply of sporting events to scroll across our humungous flat screen TV. The only sports to appear on that television these days are Jellyfishing and underwater snowboarding.

I can’t blame Taffy. The recliner is quite comfy.

Neither can I blame the kids. SpongeBob just doesn’t look the same in standard definition.

Even so, I don’t mind sharing my chair. Or my bed. Not even my USDA Prime beef.

As a Food Network schooled culinary expert, I’ve been known to waste a fair amount of time in the kitchen preparing wholesome and savory dishes that nobody likes.

Owing to our five member family and four seat dinette, we tend to eat in shifts. I go last.

Understandably, my wife and children can’t bear to watch Taffy sit upon her tufted pouf before a bowl of brittle, nutritionally balanced, outrageously expensive dog chow, while they devour peppercorn and garlic encrusted New York Strips, herbed red potatoes, and honey-balsamic glazed green beans. Taffy’s suffering is more than they can endure.

Sometimes, the kids save me a few scraps. They are kind. At my age, I don’t need the fat and cholesterol anyway. And Taffy’s food isn’t half bad soaked in a little milk.

It is true that the older I get, the simpler my needs become. Nowadays, I’m happy if I can sleep through the night and wake the next morning pain free and un-constipated.

Experts on human aging have discovered a direct correlation between a couple’s years of marriage and their preferred proximity while sleeping. Though we haven’t opted for separate bedrooms (yet), my wife and I purchased a king size mattress in order to maximize our mutual comfort while maintaining the illusion of marital bliss, both for the benefit of the children and our respective mothers-in-law.

It’s a nice mattress. Big, too. But whereas I once looked forward to spreading out in my unencumbered half of nocturnal acreage, it seems poor Taffy just can’t get comfortable anywhere else. How an eleven pound creature is able to occupy twenty times her own volume in bed-space is a miracle that defies all known laws of physics.

And while falling out of bed a several times a night does provide good practice in the event of a fire or tornado, balancing a body my size on eleven inches of mattress edge makes for a night’s sleep even a galley slave wouldn’t envy. Fortunately, it turns out we have some very accommodating couches, chairs, and rugs scattered throughout our home.

All things considered, I can’t complain. I’m kept well fed and properly bathed. Taffy sees to it I get plenty of exercise during our morning and evening walks. And my family doesn’t seem to mind having me around, as long as I keep off the living room furniture. It’s not a bad life by any measure.

In Native American lore, my place at the base of our family totem pole represents a position of strength and dominance – the foundation which supports the whole. Nonetheless, as I gaze up beyond the smiling caricatures of my wife and two children, I can’t help but wonder what the view is like from the top. Only Taffy knows for sure.