ry night, bedtime is supposed to be simple—turn off the lights, fluff the pillows, and drift into sleep. But with Chooch, nothing is ever that easy. 🙄
The routine begins the moment I say the words, “Let’s go to bed, Chooch.” You’d think he’d listen, but instead, it sparks a whole new game. He stares at me with those mischievous eyes, tail wagging, as if to say, “Bedtime? I don’t think so!” Before I can blink, he’s darted off to the other side of the room.
Sometimes he hides behind the couch, peeking out just enough for me to see him, waiting for the chase he knows I’ll give. Other times, he brings over a toy—his favorite squeaky ball or a chewed-up plush—and drops it at my feet, as though midnight is the perfect time to play fetch. If I ignore him, he makes a big show of flopping dramatically onto the floor with a sigh, as if he’s the one being inconvenienced.
When I finally manage to guide him toward the bedroom, the drama isn’t over. Chooch leaps onto the bed first, sprawling across the pillows like he owns the place. He’ll roll onto his back, paws in the air, refusing to move even an inch to give me space. If I try to nudge him over, he groans in protest, making it clear that in his mind, the bed belongs entirely to him.
But the funny thing is, as soon as I settle in, all his stubbornness melts away. He cuddles close, pressing his warm body against mine, letting out a soft sigh of contentment. Within minutes, his eyes close, and he’s snoring louder than a grown man.
So yes, every night I roll my eyes and mutter, “Let’s go to bed, Chooch 🙄,” knowing it’s never simple. But deep down, I wouldn’t trade our silly little bedtime routine for anything—it’s these moments that make him more than just a pet. He’s family. ❤️
