A testament to how much my boyfriend truly loves me
3:06 pm | 0 | Blog | El Perro, The Man
C has never had a dog before. In my world, that means he never actually had a childhood, but hey, I don’t judge, unless you’re a cat person, and then that makes you a very, very bad person.
So it goes without saying that when my obsessive-compulsive boyfriend allowed not just me to move into his immaculate house (which really resembles a museum dedicated to Polynesian artifacts more than a condo in a major metropolitan city) but also all of my stuff and my attention-hungry Boston terrier, I understood that this was a major step for him.
A few weeks after I first moved in we had a little gathering where I proceeded to accidentally drink too much and fell asleep on the couch, when I should have been doing one of two things: a) paying attention to our guests, or b) paying attention to the dog, who, apparently, desperately need to be walked.
After all of our friends left, C announced that, since I was basically incapacitated, he would walk Gus so I didn’t have to. But the sound of the front door closing obviously triggered some sort of repressed gag reflex in my body, because the minute my two boys walked out of the house, I began puking banana daiquiris.
I somehow managed to make it to the bathroom, but I did not make it to the toilet, if you get my drift, and C returned to find me in a heap on the floor, the remains of the daiquiris in a heap next to me.
In the meantime, Gus, who had been basically ignored for most of the evening, had proceeded to poop on the floor of our computer room.
So C put me in the shower, then spent the rest of his evening cleaning up both puke and poop, neither of which originated in his own body.
That’s right, ladies. He’s a keeper.