the perils of plunging pillow-tops

Last Friday began like any other. Dennie and I got up for work, eventually coaxing Maisie from the bed with the promise of breakfast in bellies, a phrase that never loses its persuasive magic. After a fashion, we retreated to separate floors, settled at our respective desks, and commenced our daily tasks. Maisie stayed by my side until mid-afternoon when I cut my workday short to tackle labors of a less entertaining kind: housework. Ugh. Thus far, short of uttering you're hired to a maid--the presence of whom would prove to be an insufferable distraction before he, she, or they even walked through the door--I've discovered no magic phrase that will make dust vanish or transform fabrics and dishes into self-cleaning entities. On this past Friday, however, dust and dishes were not my priority.

The time had come once again to strip the sheets and blankets from the bed for laundering, the perfect opportunity to also remove the mattress and replace the bedskirt with one that actually fits the box spring in question and doesn't drag along the floor as if its sole purpose was to serve as a large, rectangular dog-hair magnet. Dennie hasn't been feeling well, so I didn't wish to trouble her. I certainly didn't want her exerting either. Instead, I opted to go it alone. I'd lifted and rotated a mattress before without assistance--never mind I would have been considerably younger then--certainly I could manage it again, despite my far-from-decrepit middle age. Considering my unimpressive height, my meager arm span, a touch of arthritis, and the extremely limited space in which this particular mattress could be maneuvered, had this been a movie, audiences would have been shaking their heads in disbelief, pointing at the screen, and exclaiming, "What is she thinking?"

Or possibly they'd be snoozing. Let's face it: that sounds like a pretty boring film.

I'd managed to slide the mattress toward myself until about half of it was hanging off the box spring. Maisie trotted into the room behind me. I wasn't concerned as she's always been good about staying down until I've finished stripping the bed of its coverings or making it up all over again. Apparently mattress removal registered as neither of these activities and was, therefore, fair game. In one swift motion, she leapt into the air, landing on the portion of mattress supported only by my two hands.

Anyone who has ever moved from one residence to another knows that mattresses are heavy and cumbersome. Really heavy. Really cumbersome. Our beautiful shepherd-beagle is about seventy-five pounds and also decidedly unwieldy to lift or carry. Combine the two, along with the force of impact, and it's a wonder I sustained no injury to my back, hands, or shoulders. Sure, it was nothing compared to a pachyderm perched on my pillow-top, but that comparison was hardly a comfort as my finger joints strained under the pressure.

"Get down, baby," I said, skipping over the usual preamble of the kind of cloying coos that make my puppy extra cuddly and others downright nauseous.

Maisie looked at me with wide eyes, as if to inquire, "Why would I do that? I just got here, Mommy."

This is a dog whose behavior is generally exemplary, but "get down" is not a phrase we've had cause to use very often. She is always welcome on the bed and the sofa. She doesn't jump up to the counters or get into any mischief, and we don't play a lot of KC and the Sunshine Band, so she's unlikely to break into dance, mistakenly thinking we were referring to the 1975 hit, Get Down Tonight.

Then she rolled onto her back for the I'm-here-to-inspire snuggles to which my loyal author's assistant has become accustomed, on this occasion totally oblivious to her perilous position. She rolled, in fact, in the worst possible direction--toward me, until no part of her mass was situated over the box spring. Beneath her there was only a bending mattress, my tenuous grip, and a potentially injurious drop to the unforgiving floor below. The mattress sagged a little more, my tummy-side-up companion now rested against my abdomen, cute, squirmy, playful, and clearly wondering why I wasn't petting her. I was the only barrier that stood between my precious girl and possible head or spinal damage if she hit that floor upside down. I glanced to the clock: forty-five minutes until Dennie's next break.

Though it was the obvious solution, I couldn't slide the mattress back over the box spring, not with it so heavily weighted downward over the edge. My fingers were slipping. I tried to get Maisie to move. Perceiving this as a game, she wriggled some more. Let me count the ways in which that did not help. I tried to will Dennie to have to pee, as reaching the bathroom would require walking right past the spectacle we'd become. Shockingly, that did not produce the desired result. Apparently Dennie's bladder is stubbornly resistant to telepathic messages. I even considered letting go of the mattress with arms outstretched in preparation to catch my pup as she tumbled off the edge. Too risky, I concluded, especially if she flailed. And she would. Who among us wouldn't once gravity took hold?

It wouldn't have been a long drop, maybe two-and-a-half feet. Paws first, she'd have been fine. Head first onto hardwood could have been disastrous. I held on tighter, my pleas growing more urgent with every passing second. It's all a bit hazy now, but it's possible I promised her a Lamborghini, a yacht, and her own tropical island along the way. Finally--finally--I convinced her to move back, far enough that I could confidently let the unsupported section of mattress sag naturally and she could feel the shift of her weight enough to understand. Maisie got down.

I don't know how long I'd been holding that combined weight--probably nowhere near as long as it seemed. I was too exhausted to move, but I didn't dare leave the mattress in that state. I resumed my earlier struggle. Mind over matter. Mind over matter. I could do this. I fumbled. I slipped and almost dropped it (more than once). I heaved. I grunted some kind of deep, gravelly sound only a rhinoceros might comprehend. Eventually, that obstinate behemoth stood on end, securely resting against the armoire (the mattress, not the rhino--the darling giants hate being tipped on end, as well as being called behemoths). So long as I didn't require clean clothes and learned to sleep at an upright slope, my comfy cloud of a pillow-top could simply live there, I decided.

By the time Dennie's break came around, I'd not only smoothed the new bedskirt over the box spring, I'd come to my senses about vertical slumber. I'd also enlisted help putting the mattress back to rights. This time, much to Maisie's dismay, we first closed the door.

It was a harrowing afternoon of bed trimmings and weighted woes that barely skirted an unhappy ending, but every near-disaster bears its indelible lesson. In this case, I learned to accept that some endeavors are better endured together. After all, you can mind over matter a mattress all you like, but the mattress doesn't mind a bit if you fall victim to its matter.