My brush with mental illness

I am a reasonable person. I'm neither extravagant nor excessive. I look for bargains and shop at thrift stores. I'm not cheap, but I'm careful with my money.

Over the weekend, however, I flirted with flamboyance. I took a walk on the wild side.

It all started a couple years ago at one of Sport's endless piano competitions. We were wasting time in between rounds, walking up and down Main Street of a tiny Oklahoma town. And then, I saw it: the most precious little dog bed ever handcrafted by man (or woman).

I'm not one of those kooky pet owners. I don't coddle my dog, dress her in costumes at Halloween, or buy warm sweaters for her to wear during the winter. She sleeps on an old pillow and a worn blanket that the boys no longer use.

But I wanted that bed.

At the time, Bella was still a little pup. I imagined her perched under the canopy like a prop out of an interior design magazine. The outrageous price tag stopped me cold. In my heart, I knew I could make that bed. All it would take was an old dresser drawer, some spray paint, padding, and a pink fleece blanket.

Thus began my search.

For two years, I've kept watch for an old chest of drawers, tossed in the trash by a neighbor too lazy to donate it to AmVets or the Salvation Army. I finally found the perfect drawer last Sunday during Big Trash Day. My chance at creating a masterpiece had finally come!

I dug through my craft boxes and found a used can of black spray paint. I attempted to saw away a piece of the drawer, but had to ask a friend of my neighbor to actually do the sawing since my toothpick-like biceps did not have the strength to pull the metal through the wood. I glued part of the drawer back together, and when Elmer's didn't hold, I resorted to my trusty old staple gun. I cut up an old egg crate mattress pad and made an adorable bolster pillow out of black and white fabric. After a good wash, Bella's pink blanket looked perfect against the glossy black. After five hours of work, the fancy bed was ready for its occupant.

And Bella wouldn't lie in it. She wouldn't even go near it. I even tucked a delicious treat inside it to entice her. She approached the thing like it was going to go for her throat, snatched the snack, and ran off to hide.

Now, part of me -- the rational part -- knew that Bella would not sleep in this bed. It observed my frantic crafting with a weary resignation. Nothing could have stopped me from making that bed, not even my subconscious realization that I was wasting precious hours of my Sunday afternoon working on it. I suppose I just wanted to prove to myself that I could make something that closely resembled the fancy, extravagant bed I'd seen in the store.

Well, I did it. Now it sits in the garage, waiting for a sleepy occupant who's not afraid of everything.