Don’t judge Alex, but he considers himself a cat person. Who am I kidding, this is the internet—you probably love him even more now. But he doesn’t really like dogs. He’s one of those people who says stuff like this:
“Cats are better because they just do their own thing”
“You can’t train a cat. They don’t care what you want.”
Whereas I’m like:
“Dogs are amazing because they think I’m amazing.”
Let’s not forget I’ve been living with 100lbs of Zola—who harbors a violent love for crotch-sniffing—for the last 8 years. My relationship with Alex was doomed. For some reason he didn’t like the idea of having a lion-hunting dog all up in his man parts.
He tried to make peace with her in the beginning. After a couple months of dating, he suggested we take Zola to the park. We sat on a swing set, watching bunnies frolic and falling in love like characters in a Nicholas Sparks novel.
Zola didn’t like it.
There was something about the way our bodies were gliding horizontally through the air that triggered a dog-fugue-state where the only thought in her puppy brain was “WTF, KILL.” She charged Alex and promptly chomped down on his inner thigh. The swing moved him out of her reach at the last second and she only grazed the skin, leaving a small trickle of blood running down his leg.
Zola spent the next few months of our relationship exploring her kennel and the backyard anytime Alex came over. Alex spent his leisure time reading articles on the life span of Rhodesian Ridgebacks. I contemplated whether I could build some sort of duplex like the Mormon guy on Sister Wives and just spend half my life with Alex and the other half with Zola.
Thankfully this didn’t prove necessary. Slowly but surely (like any proper love story) they began to bond. Through the bars of her kennel, they’d size each other up. Alex wondering if she still wanted to castrate him, and Zola wondering just how good his ass smelled. Eventually he began sneaking treats to her when I wasn’t looking. Their courtship had begun.
By the time we got engaged, Zola was obese. Extra scoops of food and carelessly flung pizza crusts had left their mark. I couldn’t help watching their interactions with a growing bitterness: “Why wasn’t he throwing treats at me every five minutes? Where was my reward for doing basic things like sitting?”
Even now, I can hear him talking to her when I’m not in the room.
“Excuse me,” he’ll say, patiently stepping over her as she blocks whatever doorway he’s trying to pass. His voice is so gentle and patient. He’d never talk to me in this way if I were to prostrate myself and refuse to let him walk by without feeding me or rubbing my velvety ears.
He no longer seems to be counting down the days till she goes to dog heaven. Instead, he wants to prolong her health with physical fitness. He’ll stand in the middle of the house and excitedly shout “let’s go in here” while pointing to the opposite end of the house. As soon as she runs that direction he’ll shout “let’s go in HERE” and point to the other side. He always has a smile on his face, nothing like the way he mumbles in my ear at 6AM and says “gym gym gym” in a low voice.
I can’t know for sure, but I’m pretty sure they have something going on the side. We’ll come home in the evening and I won’t be able to find him for a few minutes because he’s standing in the side yard, petting her over the little doggy gate. You should see how she acts when he’s around—prancing like a tart, shaking her ass, and rubbing all up on him.
It’s so obvious.
I haven’t worked up the courage to check his phone, but I’m pretty sure there are pictures of the two of them together. They spend most Saturdays watching football in the living room and he’s sent photos of her sprawled out in the most unladylike position.
I guess this is what I get for forcing the two of them to love each other.
Does your significant other like your pet? Are you a dog person or a cat person?
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