This, the dog.

Long ago on a farm in Buckley, Washington a little Labrador puppy was born. She had a pink nose and hazel eyes and a little crooked tail. The week before Christmas my parents picked her up from the farm, brought her home, and plopped her onto my bed. She looked like this. I gave my oldest brother, who was in the Navy at the time, the privilege of naming her. We agreed to call her Holly, the Christmas puppy. She looked like this. 

 

Anyone who's ever had a lab, or met a lab, or just knows general  things about dogs, is probably aware that labs are some of the most rambunctious dogs to ever grace Dogdom. They are cute and cuddly, but do not have the desire to cuddle until they reach about six (human) years old. They are full of love and affection, but are too excited to share that love and affection because they are also full of energy that resembles electricity, or a professional ping-pong tournament. She did, on occasion, literally bounce off the walls.

Now, I am tempted to give a full bio on my dog, but that seems like something you do after a beloved animal has passed away, so I'll save it for later. I couldn't tell you how much later, because after the story I'm about to tell, you'll understand why I have recently wanted to kill her.

Last December, my parents graciously and lovingly bought my dog an airplane ticket and Holly came to live with me and my husband here in Illinois. Joey picked her up from the airport while I was at a seminar and when I was done she was there to greet me. She kissed me happily and wagged her tail just like all loyal dogs do, and for the first time in a year and a half I was once again covered in little white dog hairs.

Since that day, I have fully enjoyed having my dog back in my life. Joey works long hours and so it's nice to have her around when I'm home alone. She is a good cuddle companion, on the couch or the bed or even the floor. She cleans up any spills in the kitchen, and has gotten pretty good at barking our faces off to let us know she needs to go out. (It has been an adjustment for her, since she grew up having a whole backyard to herself and the freedom to run around. Now she has a tiny apartment to lazy about in, and has to be on a leash at all times.) Aside from one incident where she peed all over my clothes (and stared at me sheepishly while doing so), she has adapted to her new life here.

But then, it's like she realized that I was no longer her only master, she recognized that I now loved someone more than her and that person was Joey. The logical thing would be attacking Joey. (Which she does, on command, by licking his face and head-butting him.) But that is just too simple for her. No, she had to be something more than loving dog. She had to be a jealous dog. This, the dog that stopped a thousand kisses.

Yes, that's right, my dog hates public displays of affection. Not with everyone. Just with us.

It does seem too stupid to be true, doesn't it? It's so Hollywood, so Disney, so romantic comedy. Girl loves dog, boy loves girl, girl loves boy, dog hates boy. You've seen it before, you didn't think it was real, but let me tell you... IT IS VOLUMES OF REAL. And by that I mean that Holly actually barks at us should we decide to be affectionate.

Picture this: The husband and I are sitting on the couch, watching a movie. I think it was Braveheart. There is a tender kiss onscreen, so we smile at each other, and then I lean my head onto his shoulder. He responds by putting his arm around me. That's it. Just a little snuggling. The dog, who has been laying on the other side of the room, not paying attention to us, suddenly walks over and stares at us. She sits, rather abruptly, and does the doggy "whiny shuffle." And then, when we don't move, she says, "Roo-WOOF." So I start to sit up so I can give Holly some attention, and before I can say, "Do you want to go out?" she pounces onto the couch and shoves her way between us, wagging her tail indignantly.

It was cute the first time. Sort of endearing the second time. But now it's just obnoxious. Now, she pushes her way between our legs when we're hugging. If we don't let her, she's barks at us.

There is no conclusion to this story. There is no solution to this problem. I'm just interested to hear what other people have to say. Do other dog (or cat) owners experience this? And I'm talking about violent jealousy, like Holly, where she has to all but ATTACKTHELOVE in order to stop us. Has anyone else had their dog or cat behave while you're trying to be affectionate? I'd love to hear your comments, because this is insanity!