I’ve always been a cat person. Growing up, we had two beautiful Burmese felines called Kelly and Misty and they were super smart. I know this because one time, when Kelly was sick, she jumped onto the counter and vommed in the sink. Instead of freaking out, I remember mum went over and petted her and said in a proud, pleased voice, good girl. Because I guess she could have vommed on the carpet?
Cats are smarter than dogs, surely? Cats are quiet, they keep themselves to themselves, they don’t pester you to do much. Dogs, I always thought, were far too needy: ‘Take me out, give me a treat, give me your food, pick up my poop.’ Who needs that from a dumb dog?, I thought. Not I.
I have recently spent a lot of time with a white cockerpoo called Salty. Look at his face, I mean LOOK AT HIS FACE.
He belongs to my boyfriend and he is, like my boyfriend, practically impossible not to love. And as this is a blog about love, what else could I write about this time, because now all I think about is Salty!
When he’s not here, I miss him. Maybe more than my boyfriend (ssh). I miss the way he leaps on my ass in the biggest photo bomb ever, in the most scenic location ever, and still just makes it better (see above).
I miss those big brown eyes looking up at me from the floor when I’m eating a bacon sandwich. The old me would have been all like, ‘Eff off mate, nothing gets between me and my bacon,’ but now, I would willingly live a bacon-free morning, even on a British seafront, to give him the lot. Just to make him happy. Because his happiness is my happiness, you see? (And yes, we got him that special doggy ice-cream up there, because how could we not? He deserves it. He’s a magical being who brings joy and happiness, and beings like that are what ice-cream was made for).
Good god, this dog has changed me. Cats might be smart, but there’s a reason GOD is DOG spelled backwards.
People always say you don’t know unrequited love till you have a dog. I get it now. I don’t have kids, and in my late-30s I’m not sure I ever will, but can’t a woman choose a different paradigm in which to display her motherly capacities? Can my maternal instincts not be redirected into feeding bits of bacon and special pots of ice-cream to a fluffy white Cockerpoo?
If not, well stop the world, because I want to get off… and play with my new best friend.