Sleep of the Dogs

My neighbor confided in me a problem that has plagued his family for the last several weeks, perhaps changing their lifestyle if proper measures are not taken.  Always one to back slowly away from neighbors with problems, especially those who share them with such candor, I found myself in an escapable position wedged between the stairwell and the wall carrying nothing but my keys.  At least with a bag of groceries or a fistful of barbells, I could find the excuse.  If only I had learned to induce vomiting when the offer came so long ago... Instead, I was forced to listen and nod in a pantomime of interest.

It began last month when he took the family's dog, a spitfire lab-collie-beagle-terrier mix with all colors of the chocolate rainbow, to the park for an average, albeit aerobic, day of novelty flying disc fun.  Toss after toss of the disc proved no challenge for this runny-jumpy dog, shaming the feeble lapdogs that infest so much of the city.  Throw, run, jump, catch, throw, run, jump, catch.  The further he threw, the further the dog ran.  The higher the disc went, the higher the dog leapt.  He felt cruel to throw the disc with such force, testing the physical limits of a dog who may have been mistaking the flying disc for bacon.   

Finally, my neighbor made a colossal toss, one to spur envy in college quads across the land.  He watched his dog run-run-run, jump... and the dog landed with a thud.  My neighbor dashed over, terrified that his sadistic disc throws had finally done the poor creature in.  He dropped to his knees and found the dog on her side, frisbee in mouth, asleep.  "Can you believe she made the catch?!" he asked me, impressed.  (I nodded as I peeked to the stairs behind him, imagining the number of bones I would break leaping from the third story window, and figuring that might be worth it.)  He continued.

The following week, during a walk, the dog began doing its curbside business.  Admitting defeat in the face of nature, my neighbor looked around in embarrassment as his dog rose up on her haunches and performed her balletic poo maneuver.  Too busy apologizing for his animal's natural processes, my neighbor missed the moment when his dog fell over, mid-poo, completely asleep.  Not wanting to deal with the half-excreted turd, he waited for her to wake up and finish.  "It's so embarrassing, man!  You know?"  (I did know.  Several other, smarter neighbors had walked by and the shame on my face could not be shrouded.)  He continued.

A few days later, my neighbor tossed the dog's crunchy-moisty meat food together in her dish and set the dish down next to the water.  She ran over and set to it, again mistaking the concoction for some form of bacon, her metal tags clanging against the metal bowl in a gluttonous cacophony.  My neighbor moved to the living room to set to his dinner, which probably did include bacon, and left her in the kitchen.  A few minutes later, while muting a commercial, my neighbor noticed a shocking silence.  He called out his dog's name.  She did not answer.  ("Does it ever?" I thought to ask and would have had my jaw not been clenched shut long before.)  He went into the kitchen to find his dog face down in her meat mash, asleep.  "Like she was drugged, man!"  (If only... )  He continued.

"So, dude," he said, undoubtedly one of the multiple Dudes in his life, "I took her to a vet and a dog psychologist and they're all telling me - dude, you ready for this?"  (Yes, please, God.)  "Dude... she's a narcoleptic.  Amazing, right?"  I nodded.  It was amazing.  Amazing that he could not have told me that right off and let me live the last ten minutes of my life.  Amazing that canine narcolepsy exists.  Amazing that my neighbor could pronounce narcoleptic.  And most amazing that my neighbor watched as I fell to the ground, feigning sleep, the narcoleptic neighbor.  He left me there in a heap in the hallway, one narcoleptic pup plenty for his little life.