If you are a frequent(ish) reader of this blog, you will have picked up on my love of dogs.
If you aren’t, here’s what you need to know: I really love dogs.
So, our neighbors who live two doors down are extremely … well, neighborly. They make a point to be an active part of the neighborhood and get to know the people living around them. They managed to do so even with us, anti-neighborly as we may be. (Okay, we aren’t, like, against neighbors. But we don’t actively get to know them. We may or may not be a relatively asocial household).
As a result, they picked up on my love of dogs. They have a freaking adorable dog. They go out of town a lot.
My adoration of their dog + their frequent absence = my frequent dogsitting.
Which is great! I love him, he loves me, we cuddle, I make sure he’s all good.
But I also, like, really, really love him. Like, “I would gladly take ownership of you as my dog tomorrow” love him.
Which makes it somewhat bittersweet. I get limited access, but it’s just that – limited access. And I will, we assume, one day move away, and the limited access will become no access.
It’s to the point where everyone involved – my parents, the neighbors, and myself – refer to Perry [the dog] as my dog.
This is the level of our mutual adoration.
Just look at him!
We are meant for each other.
My parents don’t think that the neighbors would let me keep him if I asked really nicely.