We tried to go to bed last night at 11, but the dog wouldn't settle. He planted himself at the foot of the German-Shepherd-weight Grand Carpeted Staircase leading to our bed and barked. We both got up, let him outside, gave him treats, rubbed his belly, checked his ears, and hauled the little bastard up into bed and pinned him there. Every time he'd get free, bound down the Grand Staircase, and bark.
At about 2:30 am we'd tried every configuration of bed, chair, guest bed we could think of. I was in the big bed when Gary picked Mac up, dumped him on top of my head, and then knelt down to whisper sweet comfort to the dog, when suddenly there was a loud bang and Gary - screamed. Gary hauled me out of bed as I screamed back, "Are you okay?" I looked around to see the damage - and our bed had collapsed. It's one of those beds in which the box spring is suspended off the floor, and for about twelve years you could admire the wood floor beneath. For the past eight years a smaller mattress has been stored underneath, so the box spring and my mattress only plummeted three inches. Still. Could have died.
Gary immediately said, "That's what the dog was trying to tell us!"
Well, he immediately said, "That's from all the wild sex we've been having" and THEN he said, "You know you're fat when the bed breaks" and THEN he said the thing about the dog.
But still, we gave the dog credit for sensing the bed was unstable. (A supporting piece broke off.) Of course the blame goes to me, as two days ago I begged Gary for help so we could flip and pivot the mattress. Never flip and pivot the mattress! It could be fatal.
I thought I'd get ahead of the game and shop for a new bed online, since I figured Gary would turn on our bedroom set because it tried to kill us. Instead, Gary is making an effort to rehabilitate the bed by use of a power drill and some screws. It can plot against us next week while we are gone.