My dog is small, off-white, and fluffy, and he has a weepy eye. This makes him look the epitome of the sad rescue mutt, a role he has played to the hilt every day since we rescued him more than seven years ago and gave him a cosy loving forever home. Depending on when he was last groomed, he can also look like a hobo. And he is now a Dog of Divorce, and honestly he plays that too. Nevertheless, I have discovered that he gives excellent advice on love.
Now Buddy is an unassuming sort and would never dream of giving advice unsolicited. But once you ask, he has plenty to say. I discovered this on the way home from the grocery store yesterday. He had waited patiently in the car while I wandered around United Markets stocking up on essentials and daydreaming about the guy I like.
When I got back into the car, Buddy climbed on my lap and looked up at me as though he really had something to say but didn’t quite know how to start. What do you think, I prompted him. Do you think he knows I like him? Buddy wagged his tail, thrilled that I had finally broached the subject he had been longing to address.
Have you told him? he said politely, as I started the car.
No I haven’t told him, I said impatiently. He looked at me, blinked a few times. Ok, I said contritely, I know, you are just trying to help. About a thousand times. I have told him about a thousand times. Buddy cocked his head at me. But only in my thoughts. What can I say, it’s been complicated.
I get it, he said understandingly. Honorable. But what about now?
I don’t know, I went on as I steered out of the parking lot, I feel like I’ve reached out, like I’ve been really bugging him actually, really unsubtle. But maybe I haven’t. Maybe he has no idea. It’s just so tricky. I don’t want to humiliate myself.
Why would you humiliate yourself by telling a guy you like him? Buddy said. When I like a girl, I just go right up to her and sniff her butt.
That’s wonderful news, I told him, but not very helpful to my cause.
Explain to me, Buddy said, curling up in the passenger seat and looking at me intently, what would be so humiliating? If you tell him and he’s not interested, he’ll let you know, right? And you can just go find someone else to like. Or he might have no idea you like him, and it could be a nice surprise. Plus if you tell him, and he likes you too, you could go for walks together in the park! You could even...
Yes, I cut him off quickly, seeing where this was going. But what if I told him and he really wasn’t interested but he didn’t want to hurt my feelings, so he maybe asked me out, but it was all awkward and he really didn’t like me at all and I didn’t even end up liking him, and the whole thing was a mess?
Huh? said Buddy, but I went on, warming to my subject. Or what if I told him I liked him but he wasn’t interested and then I had to interact with him going forward in the minor way we have to interact and it would be all horrendous and embarrassing? He might tell his friends how awkward the whole thing was. Because I’m recently divorced, you know, so probably a bit of a nut job. And then his friends would know, and even if I didn’t know they knew, and even though I don’t actually know any of his friends, I’d kind of suspect and it would be crushing.
Buddy was quiet.
I’m new at this, remember, I went on. It’s been nearly twenty years since I was single. It’s frankly terrifying, the whole scene. And confusing. I mean, my entire life, I always let guys be the ones to approach me. But now I’m in this place where I feel that if I want something, I should reach out and try to make it happen. Why should guys have to do all the hard work? Plus time...there’s just generally less of it than there used to be. Are you asleep?
Nearly, he said. Dogs are so goddam honest it kills me. But I am also very confused. You humans, you make everything really complicated when it’s actually all quite simple.
Are we talking butts again? I said. He shook his head. In fact, he shook his whole body and stood up and turned around a couple of times, then settled back in exactly the same position. Let me get it straight, he said. You like this guy, and as far as I remember, you have for a while. But you have never told him, even now, when there is no apparent obstacle. You have reached out a couple of times in ways so innocuous and tentative that there is honestly no way he could reasonably suspect you like him. In fact, you don’t want him to suspect it. Even though you do like him. Because then you’d feel really vulnerable. Is that the gist?
Yes, I said humbly, secretly impressed that he knew words like innocuous and vulnerable.
What do you like about him? He asked.
His name, I said.
That’s it? Said my dog, and he raised one eyebrow in that way dogs have, even though they don’t actually possess eyebrows.
No that’s not it, I said impatiently. But this is complex and confidential information about my innermost feelings. And you’re my dog. So what about it: do you have any advice for me about unrequited love?
Buddy closed his eyes and snuggled his nose down into his paws in the way he does when he’s deeply ready to take a nap. I do, he said happily. Just tell him. It’s only three words, and they are all one syllable. I.Like.You.
We drove the rest of the way home in silence. His nose twitched a couple of times and I had a suspicion what he was dreaming about. But as we turned onto my road, he said quietly: Also, it isn’t unrequited until he actually tells you he’s not interested.
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