I like my men like I like my dogs ...
What? I don't have Daddy Issues. I have Doggy Issues. For my earliest years, I was the youngest in my family. Yes, even the family dog had more seniority than I. A fact my sister relished. Heck, even my grandparents' dog out-ranked me. I was totally okay with that. Why? Portable blankets that ate my vegetables and gave me baths.
Hey, you're not clean until you're dog-snarble clean.
My baby blanket has dog hair embedded in it. Ninety percent of the family photos have an ethereal glow due -- not to some cheesetastic amateur photography diffusers -- but to the dog hair clinging to our clothes. Hell, I used to get called out of school because my dog had escaped the yard.
Once upon a time, for three years, there was no family dog. The elder statesmen had passed. We were out of country, traveling most weekends to exotic castles and battlefields. My poor father has never been nagged so much in his life as he was for those three years. Once we returned to the States ~baboom~ D.O.G.
Dog. Dog. Dog.
Yes. Dog. There are no cats, guinea pigs, hamsters, snakes, bunnies, fish, or iguanas in my household history. I know this shocks many of our loyal readers.
If it's not hairy, it's not mine.
In truth, there have been the occasional dragons, but that's another post.