This is the face of a dog marking time until her preferred human gets home. Photo: Zoe Cartwright.
My husband’s dog doesn’t love me.
I know this to be true, even though she excitedly licked my hand when I got home from walking my dog this morning.
(We can’t walk them together because she’s young and exuberant and my old arthritic man will kill himself trying to keep up).
I know she doesn’t love me, even though sometimes, in the night, she shifts herself from his side of the bed to mine and curls herself up behind my knees.
Poppy loves everyone.
An SPCA special from New Zealand, she’s allegedly a labrador cross.
I’ve never seen a labrador with the head of a staffy and the colouring of a ridgeback but who am I to argue?
Poppy arrived at the shelter young, heavily pregnant and clearly abused.
Years later she still hides under the bed if she can hear the neighbours yelling.
She turned into a loving mum and, once her pups were gone, became an ambassador for adoption, visiting preschools and aged care homes to show off her soulful eyes and gentle heart.
Poppy will happily let children pull her ears and tail. She’s gentle with the elderly.
Of our three dogs she is reliably the most beloved by friends and family because “she’s so sweet”.
Unfortunately, she was adopted by a man as loving and (dare I say) borderline codependent as she is.
Aided and abetted by her owner, Poppy now expresses borderline insane levels of affection to anyone who crosses her path.
If you’re not elderly and make the mistake of sitting down while she’s in the room, she’ll try to nestle her 30 kg bulk into your lap and stick her head under your chin.
We’re pretty sure if she could find a way to physically get inside your skin to snuggle, she’d do it.
She’s not discerning either – any Tom, Dick or Harry who walks into the house and is the least bit well disposed towards dogs will get the Poppy-dog eyes treatment.
This is how I know she doesn’t love me, per se.
I’m a human-shaped thing, yes, and she likes cuddling human-shaped things, but her real, true heart is reserved for one man only.
If he calls her name, she comes running.
If I call her name, nada. Unless there’s food involved.
When we go for jogs together, she delights in pulling me onto the road or into light poles. I suspect intentionally.
She’s made it very clear she will not have me steal her man.
If we’re home alone having a lovely time, when her lord and saviour comes home I’m dropped faster than a hot potato.
Often I’ll go to bed only to find Poppy on my side, under the blanket on my side of the bed with her head propped up on my pillow.
I get little more than a reproachful look when I try to lie down.
She’s clearly not mad, just disappointed that I’d try to steal her rightful place.
As bleak as it sounds, I think all I can do about this love triangle is wait it out.
Unless Poppy succeeds in running me into traffic.
