So we finally got the kids a bunk bed, and I genuinely thought the hard part was going to be putting it together. Nope. The hard part was the first night.
Maya and Leo both wanted the top. Maya's argument was "I'm older." Leo's was "I'm braver." Our Jack Russell, Bernie, was sitting in the doorway with one ear up like he was the judge. Honestly, he kind of was.
I should explain Bernie. Our family friends call him Jack Russell Bernie, all three words, every time, like he's a country singer. He's short. He's round. He's shaped a lot like a loaf of bread with legs, and he is very sensitive about it.
Before I could step in, Maya came back with my old fishing rod and a hunk of leftover rotisserie chicken from dinner. She tied the chicken on with a bow (no hook, she made a point of that) and announced the rules. Three tries each. Whoever gets Bernie to jump the highest gets the top bunk.
I should have stopped it. I didn't. I wanted to see how it played out.
Maya went first, and Bernie launched. Not high, exactly, but with a lot of effort and a little grunt. Leo marked the spot on the bedpost with a pencil, which I'm still finding out about.
Leo's first try, he held the chicken so high Bernie just sat down and stared at him. Like, buddy, look at me.
Then Maya's second try, Bernie did a backflip. A full backflip. A dog with no visible neck did a backflip. He landed, sneezed, and looked extremely pleased with himself. Maya said it should count double. Leo said that wasn't a rule. They were both kind of right.
Leo's second try, Bernie landed on his foot. There was crying. Brief, but there was crying. Bernie is heavier than he looks, and he looks heavy.
Then Leo's last try. He wound up like he was fishing for marlin and cast as hard as he could. The chicken flew across the room and the line wrapped right around the ceiling fan. Leo lunged for it, hit the wrong switch, and the fan turned on.
So now there's rotisserie chicken spinning around the ceiling. Everybody just froze.
Except Jack Russell Bernie. He hauled himself up the ladder to the top bunk one rung at a time, huffing the whole way, crouched at the edge, wiggled his round little butt, watched the chicken go around twice, and jumped. Grabbed it clean out of the air and landed on the bottom bunk with a thud that shook the frame. Best jump of the night, and nobody was even holding the rod.
Maya looked at the pencil marks, then at the fan, then at Leo, and asked whose turn that counted for. Nobody had an answer.
And then Leo, very quietly, said maybe Maya should take the top tonight because it was "kind of high." My brave kid. I didn't say a word.
Bernie huffed his way back up the ladder, sat right by the guardrail, and thumped his stubby tail at Leo. I swear that dog knew. Leo climbed up one rung, then another, and then he was sitting next to Bernie looking down at the room, grinning. "Okay. It's not that high."
Maya told him he could have it tonight, as long as she got it tomorrow. They've been switching every night since. They call it the Bernie Rule. Bernie sleeps wherever he wants.
The best part came about a minute after lights out, when my wife yelled from the kitchen asking who ate the rest of the rotisserie chicken.
