This Is Not a Cuddle, It’s a Hostile Takeover

He’s my dog.

Also my chiropractor, my emotional therapist, and the reason I might need to sleep in traction.

Roo’s a Newfoundland.

Which sounds majestic until you realize it just means “sofa-sized and fully unaware of it.”

He’s 170 pounds of dark gray and white fur.

Looks like someone gave a grizzly bear a bath and taught it how to love aggressively.

I’m 6’8”.

I’ve played basketball. I’ve carried drywall.

I’ve been through some things.

But I was not ready for this.

Roo doesn’t curl up at your feet.

He targets your chest like it owes him money.

Chest. Stomach. Groin.

He doesn’t sit — he claims territory.

Then he exhales.

Loud, dramatic, like he just handled a hostage situation.

And suddenly I’m under a furry weighted blanket with no exit strategy.

He smells like beef jerky, dog treats, and wet nostalgia.

Like someone stored a ham in a blanket and called it love.

I try to shift?

Nope.

He throws a paw across my torso like he’s filing a restraining order on behalf of gravity.

My wife walks in, sees me pinned, and says,

“Aww… he missed you.”

Missed me?

He’s compressing me like a vacuum-sealed brisket.

And Roo?

He’s got no idea how big he is.

Moves through the house like a wrecking ball with a heart of gold.

He’s taken out chairs, knocked over plants, body-checked unsuspecting guests…

Then looked surprised every time.

If Roo were a person, he’d arrive late, take the best seat, eat half your dinner, and say,

“I thought this was a potluck.”

He doesn’t sit on me every day.

But if he could?

He’d install a turnstile.

“Next! Welcome to Roo’s Chest-Sitting Emporium. Now offering full-body collapse with every visit.”

And me?

I let him do it.

Because somehow, under all the weight and heat and misplaced limbs…

There’s a good boy.

I just wish he didn’t need to realign my spine to show it.