George sheds his fluffy fur coat

Jumping Jehoshaphat!

That was the two-word exclamation spoken aloud by my big brother when he awoke to a blanket of fine blond dog hairs totally covering his navy-blue bedspread on the first Sunday in October.

John’s jaw dropped upon spotting our family pet — George — naked as a jaybird standing near the other end of the bed with his head cocked sideways as if he was staring at an alien from outer space.

It looks like our Pomeranian just auditioned for the role of a bald sphinx!

Why don’t we hit the rewind button on my photographic memory to see how this squirrelly predicament began as these argumentative siblings were getting ready for bed the previous evening.

While sitting at my desk with a bookcase hutch, responding to an event-filled letter written by Chris Honneffer— my former church camp bunkmate who now lived in Farmington, New Mexico — the freckle-faced athlete waltzed into our sleeping quarters wearing nothing more than a bath towel wrapped around his muscular frame following the “usual Saturday night ritual” and promptly gave me a wet willy.

“Get away from me,” I warned with a disgruntled look splashed across my face while quickly rubbing the bacteria-laden saliva from my ear. “Since I just took a bath not too long ago, I don’t need you putting your tongue trolls inside my eardrum; because I might end up getting sick and eventually kick the bucket due to your mouth monsters.”

Can you be any more melodramatic?

Did you even brush your teeth?

What do you think?

Immediately after the cocky eighth grader removed his wet towel, he breathed in my face, thereby sending these baby blues into the back of my head to escape the odorous fumes.

Put some clothes on!

That’s rich coming from you, because you’re the one usually running around the bedroom in your birthday suit.

Following the supposedly “unfounded” accusation, I stuffed the completed letter to my intimate companion into a regular-sized envelope and placed it inside the top desk drawer before heading over to the bed on the opposite side of the room to crawl underneath warm blankets for a restful night’s sleep, stewing about the “totally accurate” description provided by my lifelong roommate.

He thinks he’s so smart.

What are you muttering about?

Absolutely nothing!

As this self-described “goody two-shoes” had himself propped up on one elbow reading over the next day’s lesson in the Teen Sunday school quarterly, the brawny teenager was simultaneously playing a spirited game of fetch with their four-legged friend—a seven-year-old purebred named for America’s first president—prior to getting ready to turn in for the night.

“You really need to start letting him sleep in the basement,” I fumed with nostrils flaring when the tennis ball ‘inadvertently’ landed on my bed. “Even though you put newspaper in the walk-in closet, he has a bad habit of leaving surprises on the bedroom carpet; and I’m sick and tired of stepping in his business every time I have to use the bathroom during the night.”

“That’s why we have to train him,” suggested the 13-year-old quarterback, attempting a diplomatic approach as he rewarded the furry little fellow with a doggy biscuit for bringing back the spherical object. “If we don’t keep after him, he’s going to continue making messes all over the house; and besides, he would be afraid if we left him all by himself down in the cold, dark basement.”

“Don’t drag me into your problems,” I quipped with a furrowed brow upon reading through the entire Bible lesson in record time. “If you want him to continue sleeping in our bedroom, you need to take him out for a nightly constitutional before hitting the hay; because I’m not the only one who is sick and tired of him doing his business all over the house.”

The would-be Evel Knievel playfully tossed his damp bath towel over my head while making a quick escape from the bedroom to take the barking dog outside, just as I suggested.

You’re such a jive turkey!

Stop dipping in my Kool-Aid.

I wouldn’t have to stick my nose into your business if Curious George stopped making unsightly carpet stains all over this house.

Due to the fact that the resident daredevil was already halfway down the enclosed L-shaped staircase with the noisy animal, he probably didn’t hear that last rant of pent-up frustration, but it sure felt good to get it off my chest.

When the adrenaline junkie returned from tending to his outdoor pooper scooping duties, he climbed into his half of the detached captain bunkbeds — which was situated in the corner opposite my matching desk with a bookcase hutch — and persuaded the friendly canine to leap into bed with him prior to settling in for the night.

Aren’t you going to turn out the light?

Since your bed’s a lot closer to the light switch, I figured it might be easier for you to extinguish it.

In your dreams, smart-aleck!

Fine, I’ll do it myself.

Directly after picking up the NERF football that had been sitting on the bottom shelf of the television stand next to his bed, the gridiron baller took a couple practice throws with his passing arm before delivering a precise punch, turning off the light switch with pinpoint accuracy — all from the comfort of his very own bedstead.

If I trip over that oval-shaped piece of foam during the night, it’ll be your fault when Mom and Dad have to take me to the emergency room for another round of stitches.

Upon hearing an exasperated sigh followed by heavy footsteps across the carpeted floor, I was sporting a wide Cheshire Cat grin while facing the knee wall wrapped in my warm cocoon.

During the night, the little blond Pomeranian shed his entire coat of fur—covering every square inch of my big brother’s navy-blue bedspread with fine strands of hair — making one ginormous mess.

It looks like someone skinned him alive during the night.

That was the very last time John let his precious little bed buddy sleep with him.