Is it a coincidence that Bill Wither's Just the Two of Us is looping around endlessly in my head as I walk my dog the evening of the breakup call?
In other words, once again, it is just the two of us: Mister Trevor Dog and Me.
Sure, walking him is like walking a boulder, since it often involves pulling dead weight.
Sometimes he just plunks himself down on the pavement, kersplat!, and when I turn around to see what is holding him up he is just crouching there low, glowering at me, giving me the finger.
And yet, I love the guy. All 30 pounds of pure corgi stubborn perfection. Poor dear.
At the ripe old age of nine, I drag him across the world to relocate to Israel where immediately we discover that he has many lumps and he has to go under the knife. And wear that terrible cone around his head and it's so hot!
And listen to me call my mother hysterically crying.
And then there's the moving of apartments.
And the fact that barely any of my friends here are dog people, which doesn't help when he humps them, an alluring habit he picked up late in life.
What can I say? He's the love of my life. He is certainly the longest male-female relationship I have ever been in. I hope he's around for a long, long time.
Otherwise, it will be just the one of us.
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