He stood near the bars that confined her, his brow pinched with concern. Shyly, she approached and from head to toe, he trembled. She was coy, seeming to pretend not to notice him there, in spite of the pained-sounding “woe’s!” that occasionally slipped through his lips. Canine Tourettes. 

Their love is not meant to be, but Murry is loathe to accept it. The sight of Lucy’s beady black eyes, her delicate ears, her long, whip-like tail, sets his entire being aquiver, his heart to mush. 

It now matches his brain.

My dog, Murry, has had crushes before, but nothing like this.

A little more than two months ago, Lucy and Ethel, two fancy rats, moved into our home’s pre-existing rat’s nest (also known as my daughter’s room). Although one of our three cats was briefly intrigued with the new additions, our two terriers paid them no attention at all.

Until Cupid was apparently feeling bored and mischievous. The thing is–Cupid’s arrows veered even more strangely off course than the above-mentioned rat-terrier romance, causing a love triangle the likes of which may never be rivaled.

You see, while Murry is pining for Lucy, a doe is pining for Murry.

I’ve heard of bucks and bulls and moose getting goofy over cows or horses, and for years my back window was passionately courted by a male robin each Spring, but I always believed females to be more sensible. 

Maybe this doe actually is sensible. Maybe she just needs glasses.

A few weeks ago, we took Murry to be shaved. Going in, he looked like a tan sheepdog. Coming out, he looked like a thin-legged goat with a lever attached to his rear. Perhaps too many hunters got lucky last buck season, severely slimming the pickings in Deerville, but every time that doe sees Murry clumsily gallumping across our back yard, she comes running to meet him at the fence.

Nose to nose, the two stand, separated by cold, hard steel (or whatever it is our chain link is made of). Our other dog, a Jealous Noisy Terrier, will ferociously yap the whole time, his front paws hitting the ground so hard with each bark that he’s bounced into the air. He has no patience for romance, no understanding of love.

Or maybe, he does. Maybe he understands that Lucy came first, that Murry’s not being faithful. Maybe he’s shamed by his friend’s two-timing ways.

Or maybe there’s one ounce of normal in both dog’s combined, and that ounce is telling him deer = bark.

As I type this, I can hear Murry’s moony woo-ing from the next room, his sweet serenade of a rat.

Before long, a different kind of nature will prompt him to trot into my office, looking all watery-eyed and fidgety, needing to visit a tree. And visit his deer.

But fickle is the heart of my Murry, and I expect his loves will be fleeting. 

Yet when I pause to look into his deep brown vacant eyes, I get the feeling he understands. Love must be plucked where it’s found, and enjoyed for the brief hour it lasts.