Romeo Die Uh BEE Tus

Die being the key word in that phrase.

Saturday 11:45PM: Lap lap lap lap lap. Lap lap lap lap lap. Lap lap lap lap lap. Lap lap lap lap lap. Lap...lap...lap.

Saturday 11:50PM: Scratch bam scratch bam scratch bam. SCRATCH BAM SCRATCH BAM SCRATCH BAM. This soundtrack repeats 3 times until I wake up. Romeo is at our bedroom door, scratching the bejesus out of it so that some human with opposable thumbs will shuffle over and open the door, then follow his skittering paws around the corner, unlock the sliding door, flip on the back light, and wait 30 seconds for him to find a spot to pee, 90 seconds for him to pee, and 20 seconds for him to run back inside. Followed by human, turning off backyard light, shuffling back to the room, refilling the water bowl, and tucking his sorry butt back into his bed. That human was The Good Doctor.

Sunday 1AM: Scratch bam scratch bam scratch bam. SCRATCH BAM SCRATCH BAM SCRATCH BAM. I get up. But on my shift, add in 4 extra minutes for Romeo to decide that, in addition to peeing, he has to poop because all that Science Diet W/D high fiber food is working its fine way through his 9 pound body like Carl Edwards in pole position. Keep in mind, every minute of interrupted sleep at 2AM should be multiplied by 5 for its actual effect on the body.

Sunday 2AM: The Good Doctor wakes up and says, "It's my turn." No pooping. His shift is uneventful.

Sunday 330AM: The unmistakable splashing sound pee makes when it comes out of a min pin and lands on the carpet in the middle of a bedroom. I sit straight up, Good Doctor startles, we both start snapping our fingers and saying, "Romeo no, NO ROMEO NO!" I'm out of bed, he flips on the nightstand lamp, I flip on the main light and hustle the dog out to the backyard before heading into the kitchen to retrieve some paper towels and the pet cleaner. 10 minutes later, back in bed. Again, the multiple of 5 should be applied at the 3AM hour.

Sunday 5AM: Rubbing sounds. Romeo is scratching his back on the bottom of our armoire. Rub. Rub. Rub. I let him out as a pre-emptive strike. He pees. It's the least action packed of my rude awakenings. 

This was the worst night since his diagnosis. And it was our fault. Earlier in the day, we left for 2 hours to run some errands and pick up supplies for Emmy's belated birthday party. The Good Doctor has never done this before, but he made the mistake of leaving his snack-filled man bag on a chair. A chair within reach of a diabetic min pin. 

We came back to an apocalyptic scene.

The bag was on the ground, dragged two yards from its original chair, contents emptied. It was like Romeo had an agenda to not only eat everything in his power, but to send a message that he is not appreciating the twice daily neck stabbings we're giving him.

The iPod was tossed out of its box, important papers and records were separated and stepped on, crumpled and spread apart like he used them to skate from one side of the dining room to the next. 

The wrapper of a Carrot Cake Clif Bar, ripped into 64 tiny pieces, strewn all over the floor in the dining room and family room. In the kitchen, a tiny bit of plastic wrap, clinging to the remains of a label that said "Ch Chi Coo." Crumbs from a banana bread slice under the bench. 

Somehow two chocolate foil wrapped Easter eggs and a Nature Valley granola bar were untouched. The diabetic coma probably kicked in before he could finish them off.

New house rule: man bags must be stowed in the closet.

P.S. If this post leaves you wondering why my husband keeps so many baked goods on his person, that makes two of us.