For the last 4 and a half years I have shared my life with a dog named Billie Holiday. The first time I saw her at the pound, I knew I had to take her home. She was a tiny, energetic, and clearly love-starved puppy. I was about to graduate college, in a strained relationship, and kind of love-starved myself.
So, in spite of the protests from my boyfriend, and egged on by soft-hearted roommates, I adopted the fur-ball. She is small-ish, brown-ish, and smart-ish. But more than anything, she is manipulative. Billie is cute and she knows damn well that she is cute. And I am weak. But I am also pretty sure she doesn’t like me.
My suspicions began innocently enough. I would get home from work to find her sprawled out on my bed, her little brown hairs covering every inch of my white sheets. Annoyed at her for messing up my blankets, but still excited to see her after a long day, I would call her over, “here, girl!” And in response, she would simply yawn and go back to her nap. She likes her naps, but she does not like me.
So we live in a kind of détente. Like a rocky marriage. I love her and just want to make her happy, and she placates me until she gets hungry. Or sleepy. Or has to pee.