The man in my bed is a dog, literally–not figuratively, like what my friend Carrie meant when she said, “All men are dogs.” He’s a real dog and the best male I’ve ever slept with. Even now, his head on my pillow, front paws held together, as if saying a prayer. He lets me rest my elbow on his backside, content just to be near me.

Sometimes I really wish that men were more like dogs.

Rufus is more true and tender, more loyal than most of my long-gone boyfriends.

I’m not embarrassed to spread a thick layer of peanut butter, the creamy kind, on a slice of bread and eat it in front of him, all sticky lips and fingers. In fact, he’s most attentive at times like this, waits patiently to lick my fingertips. I never have to worry about his leaving up the toilet seat either, though I do have to keep the lid closed, so he won’t drink from it.

He’ll always be faithful, I’m certain of that. He’ll never have a wandering eye when we walk in the park. Maybe he’ll take off after a squirrel or a rabbit, but I know he’ll never catch one. He probably knows it too, but he sure does enjoy barking up that tree.

by Linda Pizzi, previously published by The Ravens Perch