On love and dogs

Today in the park my dog Fred met a Pitbull named Molly and ‘got that look in his eyes.’

My other dog barked and growled at everyone and every dog imaginable. She’s a daschund; they’re nasty like that.

I saw six Japanese tourists all dressed in khaki, carrying binoculars, birdwatching. They nodded and said ‘Good morning.’  A cute whippet wearing a pink coat had joined them.

It looked a lot like love.

The cyclists were rude, as they always are. They never have dogs.

And there was a young couple sitting on a bench, both holding Yorkies, staring straight ahead, not talking to each other.

I hope they’re okay.

The couple, that is.

The dogs looked fine.

I love dogs.  I love going to the park and meeting Daisy, Leipold, Fluffy, Buster and Bingo.

I think one day I’m going to meet my future husband at the park.  He’s going to be rugged looking, wear flannel shirts, gumboots,  have a tattoo, be clever and kind and rich and most importantly, own a villa in Europe and have at least six long haired wiry Hungarian Vizslas

The dogs will be perfect.

The man will be great.

The sex will be fantastic.

We’ll never end up, silent and sulking on a bench.

And I’ll just carry on dreaming, shall I?

About perfect men and perfect villas and perfect dogs.

And absolute and total and perfect Unconditional Love.


10 thoughts on “On love and dogs

      1. Their wounds will fester and eat away at the like cancer, until on some bright sunny morning (because it is never dark and stormy, regardless of what cliché melodrama tells you) the bubble will burst forth with accusations and bile—either that, or he will go home and remember to put down the toilet seat.


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