A Morning Hot Dog

My dog knows how to turn up the heat, and I don't mean the thermostat, though I wouldn't put it past him. You see, I was sleeping very comfortably this morning when I was awakened, not rudely, but awakened nonetheless by the awareness that I was sweating. Now, as a fairly soon-to-be doctor, when this kind of thing happens, I've learned to run the gamut of what's called ROS or review of systems.

Let's see, I'm having night sweats. Am I having difficulty breathing? What about wheezing? Do I have unexplained cough? Wait a minute: I live in Maine, it's summer, the hay is freshly cut, the windows are open most of the time and it's dusty -- I should have a cough. Nothing unexplained about that. So, if I'm not sick, then why do I feel like I'm laying in a sauna?

At this point, my mental rheostat is finally turned up completely and all the "lights" are on. It's the dog (groan). 80 pounds of Yellow Labrador Retriever laying stem to stern against me and cranking out more BTUs than a blast furnace. Nose at my toes, tail at my chin, happy as a clam and out cold. I was, too, but not anymore.

What to do? I considered turning over but he'd pushed me so close to the edge of the bed any turning meant falling, so that was no good. I'll just go back to sleep, I thought. Uh huh. Two roasting seconds later, I gave in to checking the clock -- five thirty. An hour earlier than planned and two hours earlier than I'd hoped for. So, thanks to you-know-who, here I am. Now, where's he, you're wondering? Ensconced at my feet like a loyal pal? Nope.

He's still in bed. Naturally.