Why I can’t sleep at night

I have a nervous little dog. We rescued him from the shelter, where he was frightened and trying to be a bigger, meaner dog than he really was to look tough in front of the other dogs. We took him home and I proceeded to love him into submission. He bit me on the first day.

About 18 months later, he’s like a new dog. He’s on medicine for his nerves, we’ve had a special trainer come and give us advice and we’ve changed a few habits. He goes up to sniff visitors instead of snarling at them. He acts like the sky is falling every time he sees the postman, but generally he’s a much calmer dog.

We close him in the front room at night. Our house is an old brick and tin workers cottage. A long hallway and four rooms off it are the original house. It’s old, the original house, but we have no idea how old. The floorboards are uneven, and even the lightest middle-of-the-night step will make a loud groan. The internal walls are brick and every one of them is warped, or kinked where repairs have been botched over the years. There isn’t a right angle in the place. In winter the house is 5 degrees colder than outside. In summer, 5 degrees hotter.

The front room holds the heat from the heater for a long time in the evening, so we close the dog in there where he’ll be warm and will have somewhere cozy to sleep. That way the cat can walk about the house without fear from the dog. And the dog won’t be whining at our door all night.

The dog has problems with doors closing. He has problems being alone. When I tell him “stay” in his room each night I see his head droop a little. Routine and reassurance are of utmost important, so I always close him in there last thing, after I’ve brushed my teeth and turned out the lights. Always in the same way, with the same words.

“Stay. Good boy. Go to sleep. Good Boy,” I say as I back out of the room.

“See you in the morning.”

Over the past couple of months I’ve changed it. Partly just because I’m irritated by repetition, I’ve left off the “see you in the morning”. But in my head, it’s still there.

Because our house is old and creaks and groans it never seems entirely quiet, never entirely at rest. So now that I don’t complete the routine, it’s clear, Technicolor clear, that the house completes it for me.

“Stay. Good boy. Go to sleep. Good boy,” I say as I back out of the room.

And a low growl drifts down the hallway. Or worse, it’s right right behind me. Right in my ear. As I back into the dark hall.

“We’ll see you in the morning.”