My dog is a terrible wingman.
He and his Puss-In-Boots eyes had one job, and one job only – And that was to get me into the good books of cute boys. But no, he couldn’t even do that. All that long lashes and beautiful brown eyes were for naught, truly.
You’re probably wondering why I’m berating my 7-year old Shih-Tzu so – Let’s take a look, shall we?
About two weeks after meeting my beau, and mind you, this was about a year and a half ago, I brought the beau home to meet the folks. Nothing special there, just a couple of nerves from my trembling house guest and lots of reassurances that my dad wasn’t going to beat him up with a baseball bat.
Cue Quinn, the world’s most disgraceful wingman.
His job, as I had briefed him prior to my date with the beau, was to be his usual adorable self. To bat those big brown eyes, maybe even do his trademark Zhao Cai Mao (Fortune cat) beg, where he’d get up on his hindlegs and beg for attention, or whatever piece of food that you’d be chowing down at the moment.
Did he do it? Let’s see, shall we?
The beau and I enter the house, Quinn jumps up, eager to see us. His tail is going berserk, I swear. And his whines synonymous to those of a feline in labour. Yes, he greets guests well, but his wingman capabilities? Not so good.
The day progresses on smoothly, the folks had taken quite a liking to the beau, dinner, the day was about to come to that perfect Disney end that I had so dreamed off – Rigggggght up till the end of the night.
The beau and I were sitting outside the patio, the moon hanging like a great big cheshire smile in the sky. I widened my eyes warningly at Quinn – A hint that he probably should’ve easily picked up as a “do something cute now!” look. Alas, my dog was as dumb as they could get.
This is when it all went down – Quinn ran over to the yard, sniffing wildly in the dark. I was flashing my million-dollar smile to the beau, who was lounging handsomely on the Chaise right next to me. JUST as things were about to heat up, cue Quinn, with what seemed to be a white squishy sushi roll in his mouth. He was back from his yard-sniffing escapades, and eager to get us both to play with him and his newfound toy.
I frowned. That was unlike any toy I had ever bought for him. I shyed away from cotton-ey toys, because Quinn usually had a penchant to rip his cotton-stuffed toys limb from limb and devoured them whole (no joke, Quinn eats cotton) as if he were a terrifying Japanese wolfish monster emerging from the depths of the Sea of Japan.
I peered at the toy, ordering Quinn to drop it.
He did, and I screamed. So did the beau, but I didn’t blame him.
The fur around Quinn’s mouth was stained a bright red, and he was licking himself enthusiastically. I felt myself go a little nauseous.
Living on the ground floor had its Sunday chaise lounge perks. And then, there were times like this: Quinn had found a balled up, used sanitary pad that had apparently been flung from the upper floors and into my garden.
Revolted, the beau bid me adieu with a quick peck on the cheeks, and left.
I swirled around angrily at Quinn, his face depicting a look of “What did I do? I love you I love you I love you! I did nothing wrong, let’s play!”
I grabbed the shampoo, baby wipes and sanitiser – And Quinn was plunged into a cold midnight bath. Following his cruel ice torture of a bath, I loaded him up on Vitamin Bs, Folic acid, Riboflavins, Salmon Omega 3 Oils and Vitamin Cs – Determined to detox his body from all the… *shivers*.
So there you go, that was probably the most excruciatingly humiliating thing that Quinn ever put me through. I’m surprised by two things though:
- That I still love that little bugger so much
- That the beau and I actually made it this far, given the terrible night that we had when we first started out.