I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship by Wade Rouse

that there’s anything wrong with that. (A purse tarantula, on the other hand: not cool.) He’s not a punting dog, he’s not a yelping dog, and he’s not one of those super-miniature dogs that looks like a big rat. Max just isn’t large. In appearance, at least. His personality is gigantic.
    And so began the love affair between Colin and Max. Colin would take him for walks. Colin would take him to have cigars with “his boys.” Colin would take photographs of him from every angle at every time of the day and share them with his family as if Max were our child. And, well, he was our child.
    But only for as long as we were together.
    This is the part Colin couldn’t wrap his head around. When we broke up, he started to make demands.
    â€œThat dog is my son. My only child. I need to see him,” he’d argue at every conceivable opportunity. My friends would argue it was just Colin’s way back into me—er, I didn’t mean that quite the way it sounded. Honestly, I never doubted that Colin genuinely wanted Max time. I just didn’t want any more Colin time.
    â€œYes,” I would explain. “He was our dog when we were together . . . but he is no longer your dog. Had we gotten Max together, I would see your side, but I had Max for eight years before you came along and I will now (God willing) have him for at least eight more.”
    â€œHere’s the thing,” he’d reply. “You make a point. However, it’s not a good one. Max and I are close now. It doesn’t matter when you got him. He and I have a bond. We’ve been through things together. Namely . . . putting up with you. We’re like Vietnam vets, or Lady Gaga’s parents. We’ve . . . suffered.”
    â€œYou mean you shared the pleasure of my company.” (I was never great at comebacks under pressure.) “Max was the bonus that came along with me. You blew it with me . . . therefore, you do not get to keep the bonus. There is no severance package.”
    â€œYou can’t keep him from me,” he’d argue. “He wants to see me, too.”
    That argument always got to me. Mostly because it was true. Max genuinely loves Colin. But, I reminded myself, he also genuinely loves to smell other dogs’ poop. All things considered, Max may not have the best taste.
    Sensing weakness like a jackass smelling . . . well, just a jackass, Colin would hammer at this line of thinking: “Max needs a positive male influence. Someone to teach him how to hunt and protect loved ones and lick himself. I can do that. You, on the other hand? I know for a fact you read Twilight . TWI. LIGHT.”
    â€œI read that for research! I’m a writer. I need to be in the know. I wanted to know what the fuss was.”
    â€œThen explain your Team Jacob thong. (Which looks great on you, by the way.)”
    I’d hike up my jeans and change the subject: “The point is, you’ve spoiled him. He was a confident, normal dog before he started spending time with you. Now when I leave him alone he whines and scratches at the door. Exactly like you. That never happened before. Not in eight years.”
    â€œDon’t act like you didn’t spoil the crap out of that dog,” he’d counter. “Not to mention trying to set him up with that poodle next door. Come. On. I ain’t sayin’ she’s a gold digger . . .”
    â€œShe’s a Maltese.”
    â€œI need that dog, Caprice.”
    And there it was. Whenever my name came out I knew it was serious, the equivalent of your parents using your first and middle name. And this time it wasn’t because I was fifteen and got dropped home at seven a.m. by a Mötley Crüe tour bus. Um, hypothetically.
    Colin hung his head. “I need to see him. You left me, which—while completely baffling to all observers—means you left me all alone. Now you’re robbing me of the only affection I have.