Must Love Dogs

Thursday, May 6, 2010


This is a picture of Wrigley. I adopted her from the Washington Animal Rescue League in DC the summer of 2008.  Really awesome shelter, so please check out their website if you can.  The ex was with me when I first saw her.  She was easily the most pathetic thing at the shelter, she was shaking and dirty and just plain sad looking.  I wasn't planning on adopting a dog, the ex and I used to go every couple of months, just to take a look and get our doggie time fix.  He had a dog all his life and I had always wanted one.  I'm not sure why my family never got a dog, it seemed like I had every other kind of pet: horse, rabbit, bird, cat, fish (although you can make the argument that fish don't really count).

Anyway, back to Wrigley.  So the hardest part of breaking up is what to do with the dog.  Of course she's my dog, I'm the one who adopted her, but he loved her too and was good to her.  In fact, I think she's what kept us together for the last year or so.  It's like those couples who have a kid to try to salvage the relationship.  Breaking up is also like getting a divorce and trying to figure out what to do with the kid. I'm paying child support (dog walks) and he has in the past used her as leverage against me.

With the craziness of breaking up, moving out and then moving to New York, we decided it would be better for him to keep her until I got settled.  I have to say, I really really miss her.  Now it's to the point that I'm thinking about dating guys who have dogs just so I can take their dogs to the dog park.  There is something about a man who loves dogs or has one of his own.  It shows that he can be responsible for someone other than himself and that he has a lot of love to give.

Maybe now when I meet a guy, I should just ask him for a picture of his dog.

Lesson Learned: When dogs slobber on you, it's cute.  When guys slobber on you, it's not.

1 comments:

Anonymous,  May 6, 2010 at 11:54 AM  

I have a theory about men and dogs in NY. The dog always seems to be the complete antithesis of its master.

In NY, you see the most ripped body-shaved muscle queens with little chihuahuas. Or little Nebishes with big ass Great Danes at the doggie run in Washington Square. What's up with that?

Case in point: It's also not unusual to see the most ripped, grey-haired Richard Gere-esque bottom queens with no ass (namely, my ex) who have fun, energetic, socially savy yellow labs.

The only two things those two had in common was: 1) their adoration of me (but the dog's -- I mean Jack's -- adoration ) lasted longer than the ueber successful, manic depressive loner dog's did; I mean Jack LOVED to be around me and I was the one who always got conned into walking him at 6 am in the middle of the wooded areas around Georgica Pond in Easthampton in the middle of February ("Honey, can you go walk Jack? I'm so tired and you do such a good job at it; I mean Jack LOVES to be around you!" -- no shit, Sherlock); mind you, Georgica Pond IS SOUTH of the highway (bien sûr) and I, frankly, along with Jack, loved to walk past Linda McCartney's mother's house and wave at her (she was the next door neighbor) or we would saunter by all swishy-like past the (now defunct) Le Madri restaurant on 7th Ave. and W. 18th (making it almost de rigueur said muscle queens and pretty Chelsea boys sporting day-glow t-shirts on the patio space taking up half the sidewalk were going to regularly holler "Nice Dog!" at me as Jack swooshed by with that certain insouciance);

and 2) the fact they both loved to basically eat anything in sight (except Jack was able to keep the weight off).

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