The Dog is in Charge

I’m a sucker for big brown sad eyes. That right there describes some of the more questionable decisions in my romantic life.

Here’s my dog, Bander.

He was, when we got him, the skinniest, saddest boy the shelter had. He’d been picked up in South Central Los Angeles, and was snatched at the last second from a high kill shelter. He had very nearly starved to death, and it took a while for him to be ready for adoption. By the time we met him, he was almost completely withdrawn. You can’t warehouse an animal for months on end without side effects; while the other dogs at the rescue place barked and played, he just sat and looked at the ground. I think he’d given up. But if you petted him, he’d lean against you…. I couldn’t possibly leave him there.

Now he sleeps with his head on my pillow. He’s a great dog, the sweetest boy ever, excellent with children, well behaved. He doesn’t bark too much, or dig, or counter surf, or eat shoes. He’s gained 40 pounds of muscle, and has a smile and a wag that I never thought I’d see. People stop me in the street to tell me how beautiful he is, and ask his breed.

He runs my damn life. I get up when he wants his morning walk, scoot over if he needs more leg room, and he gets the last bite of nearly everything I eat.

Between the dog and my husband, I’m putty. Somebody help me.