The Bromance

My dog and my husband are having a bromance.  Okay, mostly Pooh King is having a bromance, and Jason is just going along with it, but I can see him warming up a little more every day to the fluff and stuff that is Pooh King.

For all 13 years that Pooh King was alive before I got married, we had been each other's constant companions.  From sun up to sun down and back up again, we were right there for each other.  I walked all the walks, made all the meals, fed all the scooby snacks, and scooped all the poop.  Except for when I went on vacation and Pooh King stayed at the farm or with his Auntie, or when he went to doggy day care with the awesome petsitter, I've been his go-to girl.

But Pooh King has always, always wanted a  boy.  He had always looked longingly at my boyfriends, wondering if he was the one that would finally take him on long walks at sunset, who would throw tennis balls on Sundays, or fling the woobie during the evening news.  But alas, none of them would do.

And now?  The bromance is on and all is right with the world.  Of course, Poor Old Pooh King's legs are wobbly with arthritis and he doesn't chase tennis balls these days.  Wrestling woobies is an infrequent evening activity.  But oh, oh those long night time walks.  Those are the best!  Pooh King anxiously awaits his bromance walk with Jason every night... sometimes patiently, and sometimes, not so much.  If I try to walk him, it is a completely inadequate effort, and he is disappointed in me.  He will walk to Jason and lie down on his feet to make sure he doesn't miss his chance.  He will moan.  He will whine.  He will make sure his message is not missed.

And he gets his bromance walk.  Every time.  Jason doesn't miss the message.  He's good at taking the walks, and good about feeding him, but he's getting great at the bromance.

You know it's true...

A friend walked up to me in the gym last night and said, "Oh, Tiffany, I should have recognized it was you from behind!  Ha ha ha ha!"

I love it when people do that.  No, really I do.  What, do they think I'm going to be embarrassed?  Shy away from the topic?  Maybe I should just refer to her as my acquaintance, for surely my friends know how I tackle this one.  Let's relive the conversation as it actually happened...


Her:  Oh, Tiffany, I should have recognized it was you from behind!  Ha ha ha ha!

Me:  Why?  Because you should have recognized me by my big ass?  I guess I tricked you with having my hair up in this crazy little ding-ding.  (The ding-ding is back by the way.)

Her: (A little embarrassed that I brought up my ass...)  Oh, no!  I mean, I just saw Jason back there! (Points at weight lifting area.)  I hardly recognized him.  I mean, he looks a lot younger than I remember!

Me:  Well, D, it's all the sex we're having.  It makes him look younger, and it makes me look tired.

That's right.  I'm bringing sexy back to the gym.  Again.  Badonkadonk, crazy little ding-ding and all.

And tonight, The Force tells me, "I love you all the way to where God lives and Jesus died."

Well, that one's hard to top.

The games we like to play...

Because Heather said I could borrow it, every night I tell The Force, "I love you more than all the stars in the sky."

And because I like to do things all my own, I add things like "I love you more than all the stars in the sky, and all the hairs on Pooh King", or "and all the drops of water in the pool", or if it's raining, "more than all the raindrops falling from the sky", or "more than all the clouds in the sky", or "more than all the blades of grass in that field", or "more than all the trees in the forest", etc, etc.  You get the hint.

Then just because it's fun, I always add some crazy number at the end.  So after we're done kissing and zerberting, tickling and giggling, it winds up sounding something like this:

"Good night, buddy.  I love you more than all the stars in the sky, and all the hairs on Pooh King and Otis and Oz, plus four million three hundred twenty two thousand, six hundred and fourteen."

I barely get it out before he starts making up HIS number, which sounds something like this:

"eighty nine one hundred forty eleven sixty hundred ninety thousand twenty three!!!"  (Yep, it's complete nonsense, but it's so sweet.)

I always reply, "Welllllllll, that sure is a lot, but I love you more."

And he sneaks in a final, "Eighty nine".

I almost don't want him to learn the actual value of numbers.