For my husband’s birthday, I decided to surprise him with a little bundle of joy. He had been talking for months about getting a big, tough guard dog—something intimidating, something powerful. The kind of dog that would strike fear into the hearts of intruders and command respect wherever it went.
So naturally, I brought home a tiny, fluffy white puppy with pink bows.
Now, in my defense, I did this for our safety. Not necessarily from burglars, but from the very real possibility of me having to co-exist with a massive, overly protective canine. I wanted a pet, not a four-legged bodyguard who might mistake me for an intruder in my own home.
My husband, however, was… less than pleased. Actually, “less than pleased” is an understatement. He was furious. “What is THIS?” he demanded, pointing at the tiny furball that could fit in one hand. “Where’s my guard dog? Where’s the beast that will protect our home?”
I gestured proudly to the puppy, who promptly sneezed and fell over.
My husband was not amused. “This is NOT a guard dog. This is a cupcake.”
But then, he sighed, picked up the tiny fluffball, and after a long pause, declared, “Fine. His name is Tyson.”
Fast forward a year.
My husband, the same man who once scoffed at the idea of having a toy-sized pup, just walked in from taekwondo training—with Tyson proudly perched on his shoulder like some sort of tiny, fluffy parrot. And when I say they are inseparable, I mean it. They go everywhere together. Work? Tyson’s there. Training? Tyson’s there. The grocery store? Tyson’s riding shotgun. Coffee runs? Oh, you bet Tyson gets his own puppuccino.
And at night? Every. Single. Night. Tyson sleeps right on my husband’s chest like a spoiled prince, snoring softly like he owns the place.
Meanwhile, I—a whole human being—am officially the side chick in my own marriage.
At this point, I don’t know who loves who more. But one thing’s for sure—my husband definitely got his fierce protector. He just happens to be eight inches tall and covered in fluff.