Broken

Finding love as a gay man in the South is no easy task. Like everyone, I’ve been on countless apps and endless blind dates. For the umpteenth time, I thought I had found “the one” when I met Scott. Our initial meeting was quite unconditional. The night we met on a risqué dating app, I invited him to come to a Halloween party with plenty of party goers. I wanted to be safe These days, people can’t be too careful because there are many “crazies” as I like to call them.

Scott and I immediately “clicked.” But we decided to be responsible and not go home with each other that night. It was getting into the third month without any communication from him, so I decided to get back out there. After all, I wanted to meet my Prince Charming.

One day, I was in Calhoun, Georgia visiting a friend and swiping away on my app. I ran across Scott again. He finally messaged me and told me he sincerely apologized for not reaching out sooner. He claimed he was in Virginia with a sickly family member. As the naïve person that I am, I believed him. We begin what I thought would be my happily ever after. Boy, was I wrong?

During this point in my life, I had roommates. I wasn’t ready to be an adult and have a mortgage. I simply wanted to crash wherever I was welcomed and party. Somehow, Scott weaseled his way into living with me. I should have known he was no good by the way he manipulated me for a place to stay. But some good did come out of it. I was introduced to my baby.

Growing up, my family had many animals. We loved any living creature, especially dogs. It became difficult to raise the pups like we should once my mother got cancer. We had to rehome them. It was heart breaking. They were family. I swore that day I would never get another dog. Again, I was wrong.

Scott had been bugging me to go see a Chihuahua that his friends were giving away. I bluntly said no. I couldn’t go through the hassle of raising another pup just to get rid of it. He begged, -like a dog- and I finally agreed. I made it crystal clear that we were looking. Nothing else. Plus, I couldn’t bring a dog into someone else’s home. He told me he understood. Apparently, he did not.

We get to his friend’s house, and they have this Chihuahua in its kennel outside in the cold. Her clothes, bowls, food, and blankets are neatly stacked on top of the kennel with a note. Scott tricked me. I don’t remember everything the note said, but I do remember something about taking her to the pound if we couldn’t care for her. I’m not heartless. I wouldn’t let this poor baby go to a pound because someone got tired of her. I reluctantly agreed to keep her until we found her a good home.

Scott drives home that night, so I held the Chihuahua. I was furious with him. I started to cry. I will never forget how he asked, “what’s wrong, Sabastian?” All I replied was “she doesn’t even have tail.” I finally calmed down and Scott said we had to give her a name. He wanted to name her something like Rosie. I jokingly said we need a strong Mexican name to show off her heritage. “How about Rosalita?” And thus, it stuck.

We get home that night, and Scott has a wonderful idea to hide her. I thought he was plain dumb. How are we going to hide a loud Chihuahua in a small house? We didn’t.

Scott and I attempted to train her properly and keep her quite if we could. She has to much personality. Too much sass. We had a month to find our own place.

We found an apartment about five miles from where we lived. Scott was supposed to be a “stay-at-home dad” and train her while I worked to buy all the nice things we had. I won’t get too involved with the past because I have moved on, but that is not what he done. I found proof that he would go and cheat on me when I was at work. I finally put my foot down after two years and told him it was enough. I couldn’t keep living like this and pretending to be happy. I did agree to let him stay in the guest bedroom until he could find a job and land on his feet. He even took advantage of this.

I come home after a long, stressful day at work. When I walk in the apartment, it was empty. I do mean empty. He took everything: T.V., clothes, books, the kitchen table, and my baby, Rosalita. All I could do was shake my head and try not to cry.

“Where the he—is my dog,” is all I could scream when I finally had him answer the phone. He made it clear that was his dog because I never wanted her. Colorful language was spoken about how I was the one her bought her food, clothes, toys. I grew attached to her. Many nights when he was galivanting, Rosalita would be there to comfort me. She would try and lick my tears away. This small act of kindness warmed my heart. I was getting her back.

Scott finally agreed to give her back if I did not press charges for everything he stole. He could keep it. The only thing that couldn’t be replaced is Rosalita. To this day, I feel the same. Rosalita has been there for my many heartaches after. She was there when my mother passed away. She truly is my best friend. There are times I want to strangle her because she likes to get loud and act like she’s the boss. Other times, I want to hold her and let her know how much I love her. It’s sad that she will never know how much she does for me. On my worst days, she is there licking the food I spilled down my shirt, giving me kisses on a stressful day, and cuddling up to me on a cold night.

Rosalita and I may not have super crazy or exciting adventures together, but I would not change our bond for anything in the world. No matter how broken I feel or what heartaches I have faced, I can always depend on Rosalita to be at the door waiting to scratch my legs to get my attention when I come in.