Why I Don't Let My Dog Sleep in the Bed With Me

Snoring, Farts, Emotional Manipulation, Other Crimes Against REM, and A Manifesto On Boundaries.

Photo by vadim kaipov on Unsplash

Look Y’all,

I wanted to be one of those people who lets their dog sleep in the bed with me. I really did. I imagined us curled up like a wholesome Pinterest photo. Me in soft cute pajamas. Sojourner da Truff nestled at my feet. You know, the kind of peaceful domestic bliss that makes white women cry in Subaru commercials.

I tried. I swear I tried.

I fluffed her own pillow because. I laid out a special blanket just for her because… MRSA, Campylobacter, and fleas don’t pay my co-pays. I respect my fur baby, but I respect my immune system more.

I even whispered, “Come on, baby,” like I was inviting her into something sacred.

And for five minutes, it was cute. She spun around three times. Why is it always three? Is she triangulating the perfect sleep spot? She did a little sigh, and tucked her snout under her paw. I thought, “Aww. Look at my girl. We’re bonding.”

Lights out.

Then she let out a snore that shook the bed frame, farted loud enough to scare herself awake, and kicked me in the uterus mid-dream like she was sprinting through Narnia.

By 2:17 a.m., I was wide awake, sweaty, on the edge of my own bed, wrapped in one corner of the duvet like a burrito of regret while Sojourner slept diagonally like she owned a mortgage.

And that’s when I knew:

This ain’t g’on work.

I love her. But I love sleep more. Plus, I’m a writer. I solve narrative problems in REM and hold symposiums with my subconscious.

And yet, somehow, I get judged for saying “never again.”

Some dog parents look at me like I’m a monster. They clutch their French Bulldogs like I just said I don’t believe in love or I feed her nothing but unseasoned rice.

“Ohhh… you don’t let her sleep with you?!” they say, with the same tone people use for, “You left the baby in the car?”

Then they hit me with the science: “But studies say co-sleeping with your dog increases lifespan!”

Okay, but at what cost? I want to live longer, sure, but I also want to sleep without being paw jabbed in the face by a dreaming Labrador-Pitt with boundary issues.

So, no. She has her own bed. Actually three and a crate, because apparently she needs options for her 24/7 “I’m Watching and Stalking You” routine.

I tried to be That Dog Mom. But Sojourner made it very clear that her version of “bonding” is a high-contact sport. So when people ask me why my dog doesn’t sleep in my bed, I pull out a scroll that hits the floor like I’m reading ancient law.

Here you go . . .

She Smells Like Outside.

And not in a cute “rolling-in-lavender” way. Nope, Sojourner comes back from every walk smelling like wet mulch and like she signed an NDA with the dirt itself. I don’t know what she rolls in, but it’s giving ‘possum spa day meets compost bin. I will hug her little neck, but I’m not cuddling with a mossy rock in a fur suit.

She Snores Like an Auntie Who’s Earned It.

Sojourner doesn’t just snore—she rumbles. Full lungs. Deep, resonant, grown-man energy. It’s less “delicate doggie snore” and more “middle-aged uncle passed out on the recliner after Thanksgiving.” The walls vibrate. My dreams get surround sound. I respect her diaphragm work, but she hits notes all the dogs up the road and dead ancestors can hear.

She Thinks My Pillow Is Her Throne. She got a memory foam dog bed with cooling gel and orthopedic contours, Y’all. That’s how much I’ve committed to giving her a soft life. But Sojourner will walk past that luxury like it insulted her grandmother, whose barely two years older than her, and instead plop her whole butt on my pillow like she's raising the royal standard.

She Farts in Her Sleep and Looks Proud About It. This dog passes gas like she’s auditioning for Fast & Furious: Flatulence Drift. It’s loud. It’s lethal. And she does it with a smile. Sis, that was not cute. I’m filing an EPA complaint.

She’s on Farmer’s Dog food and fresh recipes I cook for her. Raw-hide free snacks. Bully sticks. And she makes gas is violent. Like a war crime in whiffs. And then he has the nerve to twitch and wag her tail like she just solved racism in her dream. Ma’am, no. You’re banned.

She Sleeps Like She’s Being Paid to Make Me Uncomfortable. Somehow, Sojourner stretches her 45-pound body into a full starfish formation, sideways, diagonally, and upside down, at the same time. I wake up clinging to the edge like I’m in a Titanic reenactment while she’s snoring in the middle like she pays the rent.

She’s a Midnight Moisturizer. She’s a Midnight Moisturizer. Y’all ever been woken up by the sound of a dog licking her paws for ten uninterrupted minutes? Now add surround sound. It’s like ASMR for people who hate peace. Ma’am, I know you’re self-soothing, but can we not?

And my dog, she’s African American. She believes in lotion. I respect that. Moisturize, Queen! But there’s a time and place.

Nothing, and I mean nothing, will snap you out of a deep REM cycle faster than hearing your dog go to town on her genitals like she’s hosting an OnlyPaws livestream. And the worst part? Just laying there, eyes wide open, knowing your dog is three feet away licking her entire kewchie like this is a normal bedtime routine. There’s a time and place, and it is NOT my bed at 2:41 a.m.

She Gets Up to Drink Water in the Middle of the Night. First, there’s the thud as she jumps off the bed, like someone dropping a sack of potatoes in the dark. Then the click-click-click of her nails on the wood floor echoes through the room like a tiny tap dancer with no respect for my sleep. I hear the slurp of water, messy, determined, borderline obscene, and I know, I just know, she’s going to drip half of it back onto my bed like she’s leaving soggy little clues in some twisted scavenger hunt.

She Brings “Presents.” Half-eaten socks. Twigs. One time a cicada leg. Sojourner thinks she’s expressing love, but I didn’t ask for a horror movie prop in my sheets. I don’t want to wake up next to body parts like I’m in a scene from The Godfather movie.

She’s Passive-Aggressive. I roll over and graze her with my elbow? She sighs. Loudly. Then scoots half an inch, just enough to let me know I am the problem. I am being emotionally manipulated by a pup.

Because She Runs and Plays in Her Sleep Like She’s Training for the Doggy Olympics. Every night, this girl turns into Simone Biles with paws. Her legs twitch. Her tail thumps. Sometimes she lets out a muffled “boof” like she’s chasing an imaginary squirrel up the side of a dream tree. It’s adorable for four seconds but not when she kicks me in the spleen.

Because She Drools Like a Sleepy Lumberjack. There’s no reason a dog this pretty should drool like she just saw a stack of pancakes. But Sojourner does. And not a little dainty drip—a full slurp puddle. I woke up once thinking I was sweating, but no. That was jaw juice. No Ma’am! You gots ta get up off my bed.

Because Dog Hair Is a Material Now, and I’m Tired of Wearing It. I vacuum. I lint roll. I have a special brush. And still, my bed looks like Sojourner is making a side hustle selling Labrador wigs and lace fronts. Dog hair in my bra. Dog hair in my soul. And no, I don’t want to sleep in a fur storm, thank you very much.

Because I’m Grown and I Deserve a Bed That Feels Like a Hotel, Not a Kennel. Look, I give her filtered water, organic treats, and daily affirmations. But I will not sleep in a paw-punched, fur-dusted, sleep-fart-scented war zone. I don’t care how cute she is.

So no, Sojourner does not sleep in my bed. Because I deserve rest. I deserve clean pillows. And Sojourner? She deserves her own bougie dog mattress with her name embroidered on it in cursive and a mint on the side.

That’s why.

Subscribe and Support If you enjoyed this, consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your support doesn’t just keep this writing going, it helps fund opportunities for HBCU journalism students. Every subscription helps us invest in the next generation of storytellers, reporters, and truth-tellers. Join me in making sure they have the resources they need to thrive.