Pity Flocked

Pretending for a moment that there are readers of this minimum opus who do not know me personally, it should probably be mentioned that I like dogs.

If by "like" you mean "obsessed with." See also: "stalkerish," "won't shut up aboutish," and "prone to tantrumish."

Devoted partner and I are not currently dog owners. After years of living in a small vertical box where devoted partner claimed my future 120lb.+ dog would suffer, we moved to a lovely attached-lawn house whose landlady specifically delineated that no pets of any sort would be welcomed.

I live in a house. In the suburbs. Without a dog.

Fortunately, our friends are totally on my side. Amy frequently forwards us emails about dogs who need homes; AB IMs me links to the Neapolitan Mastiff rescue nearest me. Devoted partner silently sobs in the corner while plotting revenge.

I went to a wine store this past week I had not been to before in the greater Greenwich area (to which a future post will be devoted) to pick up some wine only to discover that a yellow Labrador lived at the store. The AWESOMEST yellow Labrador to ever grace the world.

A lab who, within thirty seconds of meeting my acquaintance was giving me his paws, encouraging rough-housing, and generally bestowing upon me the kind of unconditional love my life has been missing due to a dog drought. I was immediately smitten in a Fatal Attraction, when the owner's back is turned I'm stealing the dog, kind of way. When I left the store that first night, the dog, Sonoma, went to the windowed door and stared out at me with, yes, puppy dogs eyes, beseeching me to return so we could play more.

Naturally I went back to the store.

It was then, during my second round of playtime with Sonoma that I got a strange feeling. Like the dog knew more than he was letting on. I think Sonoma knew I was dogless and upset by my doglessness. He decided the way to cheer me up was to spend an inordinate amount of affection on me: pawing, licking, sniffing, following, looking up with happy puppy eyes. When I relayed this to devoted partner, he tossed off, "oh, so you mean the dog was pity flocking you?" (Editor's note: obviously that is not a verbatim rendering of devoted partner's words, but I know some of you read this at work and I do my best to permit that sort of thing to continue.)

So now even dogs can sense my desperation for, well, dogs. I am officially the easy girl at the party where dogs are concerned and I fully anticipate that the dogs of greater Fairfield County, to say nothing of those of the Upper East side of Manhattan, will begin to pursue me, sticks and frisbees in their waiting mouths because they know I can't say no. Sadly for my self-esteem in this metaphor, I will welcome them all gladly, play with them until night falls and their true owners drag them away, and return to my dogless house to turn my longing eyes on poor, maligned devoted partner (because, as I'm sure is evident, he is standing in the way of my dog ownership - not the landlady, and that his own desire for a dog is a ruse to make me feel like we're in this together).

I hope you can now see why it is imperative for the health of this relationship that we have separate rooms!