When you bought me a dog called Fido, I thought the name was a joke and voted for ‘Bobby’.
“My first husband was Bobby,” you said.
So Fido it was.
Your third husband is called Dick. A bad name for a dog but a good name for a dick. He used to be my best friend but apparently you couldn’t help yourselves.
“It’s nobody’s fault,” you said.
Perhaps, but I keep a list of two candidates.
Now you share the house and there’s a baby on the way. I know that’s what you wanted.
Fido and I are still together, of course. That’s the thing about dogs, they tend to honour the love you give, honour your friendship. I walk the streets and he walks beside me. I sleep in doorways and he gives me warmth. Behind a sign that says: Please help me feed my dog, he lifts his doleful eyes. Petted all day, he responds only to me. The more affection he gets, the more food for us: he understands so much and says so little – a skill you never mastered.
Thanks for the offer, but I have enough. You did not give me Fido out of pity, so Fido I will keep.
He will stay by my side, faithful and blameless. He would give me his kennel if he
had one. His loyalty is the last of my dignity.
We walk the streets in sickness and in health.
And no, I am not alone.

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