Rob came over Thursday night to watch the presidential debate at 9. I served a chicken pasta dish for dinner, my first time cooking for him. I was nervous. He's a great cook, and I worried that my culinary skills would prove less than satisfactory. Fortunately, I was the only one disappointed by the meal (I didn't think the sauce was creamy enough). Though he offered a couple suggestions for next time, he repeatedly assured me that I was mostly wrong about its shortcomings and that it was, in fact, delicious. (Things I Love About Rob, #20: his brutal honesty that lets me know he's not just shmoozing if he claims to like something I've done, since I know he'd tell me otherwise.)
After eating, we had about an hour before the debate. We retreated to my room, where, while we made love, he dropped some news: "Oh, by the way, we have an apartment." (Perhaps you'd have to know Rob the way I do to understand why, in the moment, that was such a perfect thing to say. It may sound flat on paper, but he has a way of effectively turning even the most mundane of statements into dirty talk. Or maybe I'm just weird like that.) (Thing #21: waiting until the middle of sex, when I'm physically excited, to tell me something that emotionally excites me as well.) After two weeks, the owner of one of the places he looked at in Waltham, MA, finally approved our rental application. I'm so relieved that the stress of finding a place to move into come January is over. And so happy to watch our plans take shape and become reality before my eyes.
Sadly, though, there's bad news too. No dogs allowed. Before we leave, I'll have to find a new home for Daesyn, my 5-year-old Bichon. I have mixed feelings about this. He's been mine since he was 8 weeks old, the year I turned 16, the winter after my parents divorced. He's been with me through everything that's occurred in my personal life since then, freely snuggling with me when I've felt overwhelmed and always "listening" to my rants when I've had no one else to talk to. He's fucking adorable. I don't want to come home after work and not be greeted by two paws knocking into my knees and his little white face giving Eskimo kisses, so happy to have someone to play with, to love. And I feel guilty putting him through the stress of readjusting to a new home and family. What if his next owners don't know to mix a tablespoon of olive oil into his dinner each evening to keep his skin and coat healthy? What if they deny him his favorite treat: licking the bottom of their ice cream bowls once they've finished dessert? What if they lock him in a kennel at night and don't allow him to cuddle up close under the covers, and what if he gets scared in there all alone and cries and doesn't understand why I no longer wanted him? Silly fears, perhaps, but there you have it. I start to feel weepy whenever I think of the fast-approaching day when I'll have to walk out a stranger's door without him, while he watches from inside.
On the other hand, I must admit that before I knew about the apartment, I'd started feeling nervous that having a dog in the city would be more responsibility than I'd be able to handle in the midst of making the numerous other adjustments required for the move. My biggest concern is that I don't know how many hours I'll need to work in order to make my half of the rent, food, and utilities -- but I'm pretty sure it'll be a good amount, and I don't yet have a job lined up. With Rob attending school full-time and me potentially working more than one job, would we really have had the time and energy necessary to give him the exercise, care, and affection he needs and deserves? I don't walk him nearly enough as it is. So while I'd greatly appreciate his companionship in my new surroundings, I've been concerned that he wouldn't get nearly as much benefit out of our new arrangement as I would. He also has a tendency to bark when left alone in unfamiliar places... how long would our fellow tenants have tolerated that? When I think about the options in terms of his happiness, I'd much rather have to cope with losing him so another family could discover what a great dog he is; than force him to spend his days mostly alone wearing a bark collar, just so I could be less lonely or not have to miss him.
So I guess I'll call the Humane Society this week. Maybe he'll make someone else's Christmas especially joyful, the way he made mine five years ago. I'm sad, and likely not as sad as I will be. But in the end, I believe (hope) it'll be for the best. At least the landlord in Waltham allows cats, so we'll get to bring Large One (Rob's ironically named, tiny, super affectionate kitty). Still, I'm going to miss my Little Gentleman.
After eating, we had about an hour before the debate. We retreated to my room, where, while we made love, he dropped some news: "Oh, by the way, we have an apartment." (Perhaps you'd have to know Rob the way I do to understand why, in the moment, that was such a perfect thing to say. It may sound flat on paper, but he has a way of effectively turning even the most mundane of statements into dirty talk. Or maybe I'm just weird like that.) (Thing #21: waiting until the middle of sex, when I'm physically excited, to tell me something that emotionally excites me as well.) After two weeks, the owner of one of the places he looked at in Waltham, MA, finally approved our rental application. I'm so relieved that the stress of finding a place to move into come January is over. And so happy to watch our plans take shape and become reality before my eyes.
Sadly, though, there's bad news too. No dogs allowed. Before we leave, I'll have to find a new home for Daesyn, my 5-year-old Bichon. I have mixed feelings about this. He's been mine since he was 8 weeks old, the year I turned 16, the winter after my parents divorced. He's been with me through everything that's occurred in my personal life since then, freely snuggling with me when I've felt overwhelmed and always "listening" to my rants when I've had no one else to talk to. He's fucking adorable. I don't want to come home after work and not be greeted by two paws knocking into my knees and his little white face giving Eskimo kisses, so happy to have someone to play with, to love. And I feel guilty putting him through the stress of readjusting to a new home and family. What if his next owners don't know to mix a tablespoon of olive oil into his dinner each evening to keep his skin and coat healthy? What if they deny him his favorite treat: licking the bottom of their ice cream bowls once they've finished dessert? What if they lock him in a kennel at night and don't allow him to cuddle up close under the covers, and what if he gets scared in there all alone and cries and doesn't understand why I no longer wanted him? Silly fears, perhaps, but there you have it. I start to feel weepy whenever I think of the fast-approaching day when I'll have to walk out a stranger's door without him, while he watches from inside.
On the other hand, I must admit that before I knew about the apartment, I'd started feeling nervous that having a dog in the city would be more responsibility than I'd be able to handle in the midst of making the numerous other adjustments required for the move. My biggest concern is that I don't know how many hours I'll need to work in order to make my half of the rent, food, and utilities -- but I'm pretty sure it'll be a good amount, and I don't yet have a job lined up. With Rob attending school full-time and me potentially working more than one job, would we really have had the time and energy necessary to give him the exercise, care, and affection he needs and deserves? I don't walk him nearly enough as it is. So while I'd greatly appreciate his companionship in my new surroundings, I've been concerned that he wouldn't get nearly as much benefit out of our new arrangement as I would. He also has a tendency to bark when left alone in unfamiliar places... how long would our fellow tenants have tolerated that? When I think about the options in terms of his happiness, I'd much rather have to cope with losing him so another family could discover what a great dog he is; than force him to spend his days mostly alone wearing a bark collar, just so I could be less lonely or not have to miss him.
So I guess I'll call the Humane Society this week. Maybe he'll make someone else's Christmas especially joyful, the way he made mine five years ago. I'm sad, and likely not as sad as I will be. But in the end, I believe (hope) it'll be for the best. At least the landlord in Waltham allows cats, so we'll get to bring Large One (Rob's ironically named, tiny, super affectionate kitty). Still, I'm going to miss my Little Gentleman.
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