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I hate whoever my dog hates, not just the mailman, though he’s a fine example. And not by arrangement. We naturally agree on who’s despicable. Who we love is a different story. I’ve watched Baxter gaze at other men we meet, men who don’t resemble me, as if he were thinking: If I had to be human, I’d be a standup guy, a good earner, and a generous lover, like you. For all their supposed loyalty, my dogs have always hedged their bets. Baxter loves my ex-wife, perhaps for the same reasons I do, but he also flirts with her new boyfriend, the lawyer in our endless divorce case. That’s them pulling into the driveway now. Baxter bounds to the door, knocks over the umbrella stand, whimpers, squeals. He wants them both, in his house, for a threeway. Umbrellas be damned. It’s my fault. I’ve been avoiding the mail, again, so the statute of limitations on their willingness to unmolest me has expired, again. They’ve come for signatures. Ink must be spilled, clauses initialed. We’re sitting without refreshment at a shaky card table on shakier chairs. My formerly betrothed signs papers her boyfriend wrote that codify terms he negotiated to unrelate and nullify us to her benefit. With her other hand, her fingers are making promises to Baxter’s favorite scratchy spots. How well I know those spots, fingers, promises! The boyfriend witnesses everything and embosses the stack of lies with his notary seal, press, thing. Is there nothing the law prohibits him from being? She’s gazing at him like Baxter does. I bare my fangs each time his little seal squeaks. And though he knows better than to speak now, he speaks. And when he says the words “sole custody of the pet,” I lunge, they’ll say without warning.

Original Copyright © January 19, 2007
Revised Copyright © January 25, 2026