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

How did you become so cruel?”
    â€œOkay,” I would clarify. “Let’s review the tape. You were trying to have sex with every girl you ever met that you could track down on Facebook. That is how I ‘became so cruel.’ Call me crazy, but that’s not what I expect of the man I live with.”
    â€œCall you crazy? Waaaaaay ahead of you on that.”
    â€œThe dog is not yours. I’m sorry, but he’s not. You don’t get Max as a ‘thank you’ for fucking me over.”
    â€œHow about for fucking you.”
    â€œAnd there went your visitation rights.”
    â€œHe’s my son!”
    â€œHe was adopted by me and me alone!” I’d scream for the umpteenth time. “You’re just the creepy stepfather the kids would eye warily if they existed! Your sperm didn’t make Max.”
    â€œYou don’t know what my sperm can and can’t do.”
    â€œI made damn sure of that,” I’d respond, quite proud of myself. (In retrospect, our arguments didn’t always make a lot of sense.)
    â€œYou’re letting your own hurt feelings rob Max of something he enjoys. Max and I are buddies. Do you really want to be that petty? It causes wrinkles, you know.”
    â€œI’ll think about it,” I’d say, knowing full well that thinking, not being petty, causes wrinkles.
    â€œI can’t believe you left me,” he’d say. Not believing, even for a second, his very own statement.
    â€œI can’t believe what you were pulling on Facebook. You were treating it like your personal dating site.”
    â€œOkay, it is possible I misunderstood their privacy settings . . . and how much slutty girls love to take pictures.”
    â€œClearly. Seems like every single woman over thirty is using Facebook to say, ‘You know that kid with the lazy eye and Gary Busey teeth I blew off in tenth grade? Maybe he wasn’t so bad.’ ”
    â€œGod bless ’em.”
    Depending on the location of the jet stream that day, you could have heard my sigh of resignation along the ChampsÉlysées. Definitely at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Many of these arguments ended that way. With me sighing heavily and giving in.
    At first, I let myself think I was relenting because I was tired of arguing about it. But ultimately, I gave in because I knew in my heart that Max deserves extra attention. He deserves extra hours of fetch time. He deserves extra head pats and stomach rubs and sweetness and affection and TLC from anyone who wants to provide it, no matter how big a jerk that provider has been to me. And I simply can’t deny Max the pleasure of a new toy every time Colin visits.
    â€œYou can have Max on Saturday,” I’d say.
    So, yes, it’s not exactly comfortable setting up times for Max and my ex to get together. And I’m sick of putting up with the endless conversations and whining for even more playtime. And, yeah, I’d prefer to have nothing to do with a cheating louse of an ex-boyfriend. Ever.
    But you know what? If I were a dog, I’d never hold a grudge. Or worry about one-upmanship. Or roll my eyes when a certain someone rings my doorbell with a new doggie toy. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Max over the years, it’s the idea of unconditional love. True, pure, unconditional love.
    I guess I can put up with a little bullshit to make sure Max gets just a little bit more of the love and adoration he so freely gives to me.
    Don’t worry.
    I still make it as miserable as possible for Colin.

Walking My Dog Through the Valley of the Shadow of Death Is a Nice Way to Start the Day
    Bob Smith
    Dogs are the only New Yorkers who aren’t in a hurry. Schnauzers schlep, poodles prance, even manic breeds like Jack Russell terriers traipse through Manhattan. Instead of rushing everywhere and trying to piddle on four trees at once, dogs subscribe to the canine philosophy of life: