Eating The Pets

I never thought love would look like this—

us, sitting here at candlelight,

but instead of wine and roses,

we’re carving into… a schnauzer?!

I stare into your eyes,

wondering how this romantic evening

took such a disturbing turn.

You whisper sweet nothings,

but I can barely hear you over the sizzling sound

of a golden retriever steak grilling in the background.

Is this how we express our affection now?

Sharing a platter of Cocker Spaniel carpaccio?

I thought love was supposed to be blind,

but clearly, it’s lost its mind.

"I made this for you," you say, smiling.

You pass me a plate—

it’s garnished with parsley and…

Oh God, is that a poodle cutlet?

You’re gazing at me like I’m the one,

while I’m trying not to think about

whether Fluffy had an emotional support vest

just last week.

I glance down at my fork,

wondering if there’s any elegant way

to ask for a side of fries instead of Fido.

And is it weird that you paired the schnauzer

with a light red?

Red meat, sure, but this is a different kind of red flag.

And yet…

there’s something romantic about the absurdity.

You, with your love of fine cuisine,

me, with my rapidly fading love of… reality.

Maybe this is what romance looks like now—

sharing a tender moment over tenderloin—

that used to bark.

But just as I’m about to push the plate away,

you laugh,

that perfect laugh that makes my heart skip,

and I realize—

if I can survive this,

I can survive anything with you.

"Want to try the chihuahua tartare?" you ask,

and suddenly, I don’t care what’s on the menu,

because love is a dish best served ridiculous.