He is the only one who loves me. I am the only one who welcomes him. One cuddly pug with droopy jowls smiling and curly-tailed behind waggling. One who is discriminated but doesn’t discriminate. One silly, drippy puppy who loves. I think he’s cute and funny, but my parents can’t see past his appearance.

His love is mine. Our bond grows as he does. Comfortably nestled up against my leg, his head on my knee, he looks up at me with crossed eyes. This is why I can’t say no to him.

When he disobeys, I try to remain vigilant, with arms crossed at my chest. No, no, no, I constantly say. He persuades.

When he is too slow and too sickly to keep cuddling, when he is an old and withered pooch, then i too will die. When there is no more good morning kisses. Such short lives these small dogs have. One who loves and cares and doesn’t hate. One whose only reason is to be for me.