It was clear that she was a wild dog. “Look at her frowning”, a friend said, “she's such a smarty pants”.
When I decided to take her in, she reminded me of what I’d lost.
He would cuddle with me for hours. He would also disappear for weeks. I was torn by jealousy. At night, I would wake up asking myself where that bastard was, who was with him. And then he would come back with some pathetic statement, like the one that he would fight for us, and I was foolish enough to believe him.
I took her in to get up more easily in the morning.
Once, the three of us got together. She ignored him, and it hurt him badly. She doesn't usually ignore anyone, so I found it strange. Bitch, he said. Nobody insults my dog, no way.
Still, he was there. I hesitated for some time, then I let go. He withdrew again. I was bleeding like hell, and my little dog was dragging me outside to play.
To the park, let's go to the park, throw the ball, hey! There is no rest for you, mommy. There is no rest for the wicked, you know it.
I broke up with him over a text. There was no point waiting. My dog taught me that we pay too much attention to dominance, we fight for it so hard. That idiot wanted to shape me the way it suited him.
“Bitch” was the last thing he wrote. It was none of my business. Not anymore.