Do you ever feel like your life is one big practical joke? I never used to. I used to be a proud, self-respecting adult. Until Kyle.
We met in the park. Tip number one: never meet anyone in the park. They are sweaty and dirty and smell like weeds. Not weed. Weeds. I was sitting on a park bench. The same (clean) bench I have sat on for fifty-seven consecutive Monday lunches. He was jogging. On a path I seriously doubt he had ever laid eyes on before. When he saw me--he was at least ten yards away--he completely veered off course to come meet me. You could call it "love at first puddle of sweat dripped into my lap."
Perhaps it was stupid of me, but I took him home. Well! He was just standing there with those big brown eyes--what was I supposed to do?
It's not that he didn't clean up well. His shaggy hair hanging in his face actually gave him a beautiful melancholy look. And he was attentive. One might even say he adored me. But all that sweetness came with a price:
I have never found so much hair on my chartreuse couch cushions. Never! He tracked dirt all through my apartment, left mud streaks in the bathroom, and repeatedly drenched my down comforter by plopping down on it soaking wet!
For two years I put up with all this--two years! All his whining and scuffing the wood floors. His howling for dinner and muddying up my rugs. And all for what?
When I finally kicked him out, he actually cried. But I could only think of the years I'd wasted on him. But my friends tell me I'm overreacting. After all--he's only a dog.
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