My husband’s dog is a fancy-pants. His name is literally “The King Louis Dandy” (though he allows us plebeians to call him simply Rey). His bed is embroidered with his name. My husband has claimed his parents feed Rey better than they do him. Rey gets a treat whenever he goes outside, whether he does his business or not.
I first met The King when my husband and I were early in our dating relationship, after his parents dropped Rey off at JMU before leaving for vacation. Rey hid most of the time in my husband’s room, refusing to be coaxed out by his roommates and friends (one of whom chased poor Rey around the living room yelling “I wanna pet him!”). He whined almost constantly and was basically a pain in the neck for about a week. BUT by the end of that time, Rey and I were best friends. He’d make my husband wait at the foot of the stairs up to my apartment until I was out of sight. As the years progressed, he’d snuggle up to me on the couch or roll to expose his belly, because he knew I’d give him belly rubs all day long.
I love the story of how my husband convinced his parents to get him a dog. At all of eleven years old, he wrote up a contract promising to care for a dog and had his (lawyer) parents review and sign it. Of course, as it always happens with a kid’s first dog, his parents ended up taking over care of Rey, anyway.
Still, they are best friends.
Rey has been a part of their family for 15 years. He’s ancient. He’s developed health issues and has lost his sight, but it hasn’t slowed him down too much. Except that he likes to sleep more and his little, old legs don’t move quite so fast as they used to. And sometimes he gets a little confused. He still begs for food, but sometimes he begs a lamp instead of a person, and sometimes he begs when no one is eating anything.
Because he is the king. Long may he reign.