I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship by Wade Rouse Page B

when I barfed in parking lots, begging Phil to tell passersby that I was pregnant, not drunk. Then we sat down to share our news with Linus.
    And he fainted.
    This wasn’t a beta test, a trial run before the real deal, as it had been with the wasband. This was my life, the one I’d always wanted. And while I was exquisitely thrilled, there was also a sadness that hung on my insides. Linus had nursed me through a divorce, a few hangovers, even more broken hearts. He grew up beneath my covers, sleeping in any body nook he could find. Linus was family, my sweet jumping bean, but he was also a biter. Despite the muzzle and professional help we sought, it would only take one bad moment for everything to change. And it scared the shit out of me. So I went to McDangerous and ate my feelings.
    Mine wasn’t the only pity party in our cheery family.
    â€œOh, please. I wish I had your problems,” Lea said over the phone. “Try having my life. No boyfriend, crap friends, I’m piss poor—we won’t even discuss the fact that I’m a disgusting fat moo who sweats when she breathes.” Then, out of nowhere she began to cry.
    â€œYou don’t have crap friends.”
    A week later, when Linus saw Lea standing at our front stoop, he nearly shit himself. Instead, he shit the floor and missed the paper. Her bags weren’t even out of the car when she let Linus pin her to the ground and have his way with her. He licked up her nose until her brain hurt. Then he raced to our closet, hauled out his designer dog carrier, and promised to write.
    He was right. There was one move that would bring everyone happiness.
    Now in Florida, a suburb of NYC, Linus is happier than a dog with two peters. He’s back to a life of gourmet dog treats, milk and honey baths, and taking up most of the bed. Lea, no longer without a boyfriend, is trying to legalize marriage between humans and animals.
    As for me, I really miss him. And a part of me still aches. But it stopped being about me as soon as I had these babies. Thanks to the Lineman, I’m now savoring these moments before my wee ones are led down their own school corridor, turning back to look for me.
    Still a family, we Skype regularly, and send a few pounds of Texas beef ribs his way. You could even say that his winding up with an in-house masseuse is his “happy ending,” but then you’d just be a perv.

Ménage à Dog
    Alice Bradley
    My husband, Scott, and I sleep with someone else.
    His name is Charlie.
    We found Charlie when we were newlyweds and our love was too big to keep between the two of us. One day, while holding hands and surfing the Internet, we spotted an adoption ad for an underweight, abused black-and-white mutt. He might have been part terrier or whippet, but in the picture, his knobby knees and long legs made him look more than anything else like a fawn or baby goat. Like he had just learned to stand. He was chained to a pipe, looking up at the camera with big wet eyes. Below the picture was the following line: “He’s just a sweet dog with soft ears who needs a chance.” I called. The dog was housebroken, affectionate, and still available. Did we want him? Of course we did.
    We picked him up only a few days later, and we were immediately in love. On the walk home, Charlie was thrilled as only a dog can be, his sad past scrubbed clean from his tiny brain. Walking! Hey! Smells! Wow! He skittered and barked at parked cars and peed on every available leaf and sidewalk crack that required marking.
    Eventually we got home—where he leapt from one piece of furniture to the next and horrified the cats—and then it was time for bed.
    This is when we introduced him to his crate.
    I hadn’t really read up on the latest dog thinking—this was an impulse adoption, after all—but I had grown up with a standard poodle named Molly who, in her earlier years, had been crated, so I figured that that’s what