I’m single. Or, if you want to get picky with the terminology, divorced. The point is, right now I live alone, except for the beagles. And that means I sleep alone. Except for the beagles.

Yes, my dogs sleep in my bed. In their defense, they don’t know it’s mine. They think it’s ours. And I must make a pretty good bed warmer, because I normally wake to Daisy smashed against a hip and Lolli snuggled tightly in the space between my knees. Daisy occasionally snores and every so often when she’s really tired, Lolli lets out a trill in her sleep that flutters her lips and scares the pee out of me, but the truth is, I like their company. They make me feel safe.

“If you ever want to get married again, don’t tell a man you sleep with dogs.”

Sage advice from my stepdad, Hosa. Well-meant wise words spoken from a cringing male face, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Hi, my name is Karal and I sleep with dogs” isn’t typically my opening line.

First there was Pearl. Then I found Lolli.

And then I heard from Sean, another caring and concerned friend. “You’ve already got one pitiful looking dog, Karal. Now you’re going to adopt a dog with no bottom jaw and a tongue that hangs out of its mouth? You need to think about what kind of guys you’ll attract when you’re out walking those dogs. You’ll make an impression. I’m just saying.”

Lolli and Daisy, my infamous 85-lb beagle rescue, definitely draw a lot of attention. Teenage boys on skateboards think Lolli’s tongue dragging the ground or covered in sand is pretty awesome. Ditto for Daisy. Now down to a svelte 53.2, she’s got a stripe of white hair running wildly down her back like her own radical rat tail, a turkey-breast sized chest of fat that wiggles and jiggles when she walks, and genuine bona fide butt cheeks. She’s the neighborhood social butterball, and she’s way cool.

Lolli’s tongue almost always causes a little confusion, though. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard someone mutter under their breath That Dog Needs Some Water! when we walk on the beach. Once I explain that Lolli was horribly mistreated, had 17 surgeries to repair her face, and is now a very happy, hardware- and jawbone-free dog, and is in fact not suffering from heat stroke, they will usually jump up from their chair to hug both me and the girls.

At first, I considered having a t-shirt made saying My Dog Can’t Hold Her Licker and just going about my own business. But people are drawn to them, and I’ve talked at length with numerous kids and their parents about rescued dogs, and injuries, and the healing power of a little happiness and love. But I’m only telling their story; they lived it.  Now, they deserve to rest their heads on a comfy mattress or a cozy leg, and not be confined to the floor like dirty laundry.

Which leads me back to the bed-sleeping beagles.

About a month ago my next-door neighbor watched the dogs for the weekend and his 6-year-old daughter helped.

Meredith: “I’ve been inside your house.”

Me: Yes, I know.”

Meredith: “I fed your dogs.”

Me: “Yes, I know.”

Meredith: “I’ve been in your bedroom.”

Me: “Yes, I know.” (Ok, I didn’t know. But I figure she’s six and curious. No harm done).

Meredith: “Your bed is full of dog hair.”

Woman to woman so to speak. No unsolicited advice, no dire words of warning, no judgment. Just the truth.

I came close to asking her if that’s why her daddy hasn’t asked me out, but I bought a really good dog brush and doubled up on the vacuuming instead.

My dogs still sleep in my bed, because that’s just the way it is. I’m no longer oblivious to the dog hair, but changing my ways in anticipation of snagging some uptight none-dog-loving guy I wouldn’t want to share my bed with anyway doesn’t make any more sense to me than worrying that walking in public with them will somehow lure the weirdos and freaks out of the woodwork while all the good guys run for cover.

And for the record, sleeping with dogs had nothing to do with my divorce.

We had cats.