She monitors my location, hates when I talk to other dogs, and cries when I leave. And she's the love of my life.
I have been in relationships with men who did some of these things.
It did not go well. There were conversations. There were “I just need you to understand where I’m coming froms.”
There were, if I’m being fully honest, some parking lot phone calls to my best friend that started with “okay so something kind of weird just happened.”
And yet.
My dog does the same things – the monitoring, the possessiveness, the emotional dependency that would, in any other context, be very much a problem – and I find it endearing every single time.
I come home to her version of a guilt trip and I feel loved. I see her watching me from across the room and I think: she just really cares.
The difference isn’t the behavior. It’s who’s doing it.
She knows when I’m getting ready to leave before I’ve touched my keys.
She has memorized my pre-departure routine the way you memorize someone’s order at a coffee shop. Shoes with heels. The blow dryer. The bag that isn’t the errand bag. The earrings that mean I’m going somewhere real.
She sees the signs that this is not preparation for a Saturday afternoon visit to the dog park. And she’s already in the entryway. Sitting. Staring. Waiting for me to feel the guilt of leaving her… and not letting me out of it. Not for a minute.
A man who catalogued my outfit choices and departure patterns with this level of precision would not be a boyfriend. He would be a thing I told a friend about over wine.
Her: I narrate my exit to her like a hostage negotiation now. Just to be safe.
She does not like it when I give other dogs attention.
We can be walking. Another dog approaches – friendly, totally normal – and I reach down to say hello, and she’s right there. Between us. Like she materialized.
She doesn’t make a scene. She just keeps repositioning herself until she’s the closest thing to my hand and the other dog has lost interest.
A man who physically inserted himself between me and another person at a social event: not cute. Just a problem.
Her: she wants to be my first choice. She IS my first choice. Duh.
Photo credit Evieanna Santiago
She follows me from room to room and appears silently in doorways.
I can be in the kitchen. The bathroom. Standing in the hallway for no reason. She finds me. Every time.
Not frantic. Not panting. Just… there. She locates me, looks at me long enough to confirm I haven’t left, and either lies down or goes back to wherever she was. Mission accomplished.
A man who tracked my movement through the apartment and silently appeared in doorways to confirm where I was: that is a Lifetime movie. Not a green flag.
Her: she just likes to know where I am. I find that comforting. Make of that what you will.
She cries when I leave and acts like nothing happened when I return.
The departure is dramatic. The reunion is dignified.
She doesn’t hold grudges. Doesn’t bring up the leaving. Doesn’t say “you were gone for four hours” in a tone that’s technically a question but is actually an accusation.
She greets me with her whole body and then she’s done. Walk, treat, couch. Next thing.
A man who fell apart every time I left and then gave me the silent treatment when I came back – I have met this man. I left him.
Her: she missed me, she said so, I’m back, we’re good. It’s the most uncomplicated love in my life.
She sleeps on my side of the bed now and I sleep on hers.
She didn’t ask. Didn’t negotiate. Found the warm side and took it.
I sleep on the other side now. I don’t bring it up.
A man who took the better side of the bed and then acted confused when I mentioned it — like I had invented a problem — that one happened. That one ended.
Her: she puts in the hours. She stays the whole night. She has never once picked up her phone while I was talking. The side of the bed is the least I can give her.
Photo credit Kevin Turcios
She gets in her feelings if I laugh too loud at something that doesn’t involve her.
If something on my phone genuinely gets me – a real laugh, the spit-your-aperol-spritz-out kind – she looks up. And if I don’t immediately show her what’s funny, she walks over and puts her face right next to mine like she’s being left out of something important.
She needs to know what just happened and why she wasn’t part of it. She jumps in my lap, licks my face, and waits for an explanation.
It’s pure FOMO. The dog has it bad.
A man who needed to know the exact content of every text that made me smile, who hovered over my phone with “what’s so funny” in a tone that was not actually curious: not interest. Surveillance.
Her: I showed her a video of a dog dramatically refusing a bath and she looked at me afterward like yes, I see it, that was very good. We watched it twice. It was a great evening.
Photo credit CJ Infantino
She needs to be present for everything I do.
Laundry. Emails. The phone call I stepped outside to take because I needed air. She is there. Not doing anything. Just there.
A man this embedded in my daily existence – a man who followed me outside mid-phone-call and just… stood there. I would’ve needed to have a conversation about that. And probably a friend on the phone.
Her: I narrate my tasks out loud now. “Okay, we’re doing laundry.” “This email is a lot.” “Almost done, then we’ll go outside.” She listens. She stays. She is the most reliable presence in my life and I’m not even being dramatic.
None of these behaviors would have been acceptable in another context. In another context, they would have been deeply concerning.
But she isn’t doing any of it to control me. She’s doing it because she has decided (without conditions, without weird energy, without making me earn it) that I’m her person.
Completely. Every day.
She is just really glad I exist. I’m glad she does, too.
Send this to the group chat. They’ll know exactly which ex you’re thinking about. So will you.
