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Spike's Secret to Success

It seemed like the dog was going to be a deal-breaker for this relationship. Something or someone had to change.

By Amy Rossett, Charlotte, North Carolina

As appeared in

I stood on the front porch, finger poised at the doorbell.

Just what am I letting myself in for here? I wondered.

I’d never been to Brian’s house before. Friends at church had set us up and I liked him right away. We’d had our first date a few weeks before—an afternoon coffee that we extended to dinner. We had so much in common—similar upbringings, the same love of faith and family. We were both in our late thirties and, more to the point, we’d both had disappointing first marriages. Mine had ended almost a decade earlier. Brian had been divorced two years. I thought we’d been given the miraculous gift of a second chance.

There was one hiccup: Spike, Brian’s seven-year-old rat terrier. I hadn’t met Spike yet, but I might as well have. Brian spoke of him often. “He was my security blanket through the divorce,” Brian explained on our first date. “You’ll love him. Trust me.”

Well, I liked dogs, but what was I supposed to say when Brian told me Spike might be so excited to see me he’d pee on my leg? Or that I shouldn’t worry if there were pauses in our conversation because he had to throw Spike’s squeaky toy? “I wouldn’t want him to feel left out,” Brian said. Hmm, I thought. Who’s going to feel left out?

I pushed the bell. Footsteps. Scrabbling paws. The door opened. “Hi!” Brian said. A black-and-white streak raced around my ankles, sniffing every inch of my shoes. I held my breath. No accidents. Spike looked up, his tail wagging a hundred miles an hour. A toy frog dangled from his mouth. Spike gave the frog a squeeze. Squeak.

“He likes you!” Brian exclaimed. “Come on in.” Brian got to work on dinner—shrimp and rice. Spike positioned himself between us in the kitchen. “How are your classes going?” Brian asked. I’m an elementary-school teacher. I was about to answer when Spike gave his frog another squeeze. Squeak.

“Hang on,” said Brian. He took the toy from Spike’s mouth and hurled it into the living room. Spike rocketed past and a moment later returned, frog clenched between his jaws. “What a good dog you are!” Brian said, laughing. I started talking about a student of mine. The frog whizzed by again. Spike’s paws clattered on the floor. Squeak. “What was that, Amy?” Brian asked. He threw the toy again.

By the time dinner was done we hadn’t gotten much past “hello.” Maybe Brian was nervous, I thought. I sure was! Yet, coming to his house made me realize just how much I wanted this relationship to work.

For years I’d been telling myself I didn’t mind being single. But, really, part of me was still just as hurt as I was that day my husband turned to me out of the blue and said, “Amy, I don’t want to be married anymore.” How long had he thought that? How long had I fooled myself into thinking he loved me? Could I ever trust love again? I looked at Brian across the table. He was busy feeding Spike some rice from his plate. Was I fooling myself about this relationship too?

We finished dinner and sat on the sofa to watch a movie. I caught a glimpse of Brian’s bedroom. Typical bachelor. Bed unmade, sheets everywhere. “Spike loves pulling the comforter off,” Brian laughed. “He hides toys in it and then digs them out.” I didn’t say anything, but I could almost feel myself pulling back. Spike wedged himself between us on the sofa and gave me a look. Brian stroked Spike’s head. I couldn’t help wishing that he’d put that hand over mine. When I finally stood to go, Brian gave me a hug. Spike emitted a low growl. Brian pulled away. “It’s okay, buddy,” he said. “It’s just Amy.”

We said goodnight and I drove back home. I was already asking myself if I, a self-proclaimed neat freak, could ever be okay with a dog who pulled covers off the bed, or with the little white hairs that coated every piece of furniture in Brian’s house.