When we met, it was magic. I should have known it would be. He was the right physical type and he came from the perfect family. He was so handsome and loving, that while he could be reserved with strangers, I knew that my loved ones would adore him.

I was very, very naïve.

The object of my affection was a Great Dane puppy. He was all I had hoped for, a companion who wanted nothing more than to cuddle and spoon, and perhaps the occasional romp. He fixated on me with a ceaseless, loving gaze, craning his neck around whatever got in the way. I thought, what more could a girl want—and my friends and family embraced him wholeheartedly. My boyfriend had a very different reaction.

To say he resented Mo is not accurate; he simply never acknowledged him, or took the time to get to know him. It wasn't until after we broke up, several years and a great deal of therapy later, I realized that this man's lack of interest in my dog mirrored his lack of interest in me. Just as he never took Mo for a walk, or offered up a belly rub, he never showed me any real affection or in the end, respect. At least Mo never had to find out that he was rubbing other bellies on the side.

The next significant man in my life was sophisticated, driven and successful. He had beautiful clothes, a nice car and several homes. While affectionate and kind to me, he was incapable of accepting Mo. Over time, his behavior deteriorated to emotional and minor physical torment of Mo. Mo avenged himself by drooling on his needlepoint sofas, weaving his porcupine fur into the ceiling of his BMW, and repeatedly wetting his bed, all of which was, in my view, only right and just.

I convinced myself that a future with only dogs for company was preferable. They would always be happy to see me; there would be no shocking distinction between morning and regular breath; and there would be considerably less shedding—I was now dating men over thirty.

But eventually I weakened and brought home someone new. He was wise enough to know that he had to let Mo come to him on Mo's terms. He sacrificed his sofa for Mo's comfort, and his tank tops and Rush CDs for mine. He understood the importance of the Sunday morning spoon in the sunshine, with Mo in the middle. He insisted on accompanying us on the occasional 3:00 am walks. I knew he was the one when I noticed Mo looking at me strangely, cocking his head, craning his neck because I was blocking his view of my future husband.

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