A Love Story

A true misanthrope never expects to fall in love, and Jon was no exception. As a boy, his mother would say that he struggled to make friends, but that wasn’t true. There was no struggle, because there was no effort. Even as a child, Jon had no interest in socializing with others. He couldn’t understand the rules governing social interactions, and this perceived flaw in his character never improved. Though as he matured into a young man, Jon’s physical yearnings conflicted with his disdain for others. Despite his solitary nature, as his yearning grew, so did a budding discomfort that he, initially, was unable to identify. Jon was lonely.

In all matters pertaining to himself, Jon was very successful. He was educated and had a comfortable, salaried, remote cybersecurity position with an IT firm. He owned a modern home on the outskirts of town, where no neighbours could interrupt his quiet. He was in excellent health, owing to his clean diet and morning exercise routine. On the rare occasion that Jon broke from convention and attended some familial gathering, his relations would often remark to him what a “good catch” he would be for someone, and they were right; however, whenever Jon departed from their proximity, they would invariably refer to him as “an odd duck,” and even as “a recluse.”

By the time Jon was in his mid-twenties, his loneliness and inability to connect with others began to trouble him immensely. Jon had never shared any sort of intimate connection with anyone, neither emotionally nor physically. He considered hiring a prostitute to help relieve his frustrations, but the more Jon thought about this proposition, the more confronted he began to feel. Not only because he had no idea how he would find a prostitute in the small rural community where he lived, but also because he felt that exploiting the body of another for selfish gain was too dubious a thing to live with. He reasoned that, although he may not understand or like people, he had no desire to harm them, either.

Jon’s suicidal ideation began in his late twenties. He considered that killing himself seemed like a good idea from every vantage point, but he knew that, for some reason, his loss would devastate his parents. So, Jon began speaking with a virtual therapist. Though talk therapy did nothing to allay Jon’s discomfort, his therapist helped him devise a comprehensive treatment plan to improve his quality of life and vitality. The therapist suggested that, by adopting a pet, Jon would thwart his loneliness, and that the added responsibility would introduce another level of accountability in his life, thus reducing the chances he would engage in self-harm.

When Jon arrived at the local adoption shelter, he walked through a large concrete area with chain-link fencing units that housed unwanted dogs. As he and a shelter attendant walked along the cages, the attendant would lean close to his ear and yell over the cacophony of barking,

“This one here’s real friendly! Loves people!

She came from a backyard breeder. She’ll lick your face off! She’s incontinent, though. Bred too much.”

After hearing such introductions, Jon began to feel that each dog was marred by its senseless love of humans. One dog in particular, a Labrador named Marley, disgusted him especially. The dog stared at him with dopey brown eyes and an expectant smile as its hindquarters wiggled and waggled back and forth while Jon stared disapprovingly at the animal. Everything about this dog bothered him, from its unoriginal name, derived from a culture he deemed painfully dull, to its stupid, slobbering demeanour. He was about to tell the man at the shelter that he had changed his mind when he heard an intense guttural growling from the opposite side of the room.

Another attendant was walking a stocky, ferocious-looking animal past a series of cages by using a long pole with a corded end fastened around the dog’s thick neck. As this dog’s angry, humid emissions flung froth on the other dogs’ cages, the confined animals paced and barked nervously. Jon had never seen such an impressive creature. Her entire body was knotted with bulging muscles; she had exotic blueish-grey fur that he had never seen before, and her ears were cropped to two tiny points that barely protruded from the base of her immensely broad skull.

“Sorry about her,” the man who had delivered the introductions began, “she’s on her way to be euthanized. Poor thing.”

“Why?” Jon inquired.

“Not right in the head,” the man declared. “She’s not great with people and hates other dogs. Poor thing’s got the world against her – born with bad genes and raised by bad people. Typical pitbull, go figure. Never had a chance.”

Jon pondered the man’s comments, then told him that he wanted to adopt her immediately.