Wildlife
Fitz: My Dog by Address, My Wife’s Dog by Heart
HA
By haphuong10050208Published: 09/02/2026 18:23| 0 Comments
Fitz lives with me—but his heart belongs to my wife.
Photo: Onplusnews.net1 of 1
This is Fitz.
Officially, he lives in our house.
Emotionally? He belongs to my wife.
Every morning when she leaves for work, Fitz watches her go like a Victorian orphan waving from a foggy train station. Then he turns to me, sighs dramatically, and gives me the look. You know the one. The “well… I guess you’ll do” look.
I try everything. Walks. Treats. Belly rubs. Encouraging words. Fitz accepts them politely, the way you accept snacks from a stranger while waiting for your real friend to show up.
He follows me around the house—but only to make sure I’m not my wife in disguise. When he realizes I’m still me, he flops down three feet away, facing the door, just in case she returns early.
I’m not his person.
I’m his understudy.
By late afternoon, the anticipation begins. Around 4:37 p.m. — yes, I’ve timed it — Fitz stations himself by the window like a tiny, furry security guard awaiting the Queen’s arrival. Every passing car gets a hopeful ear twitch. Every footstep outside sends him into full alert mode. I’ll say, “She’ll be home soon, buddy,” and he’ll glance at me like I’m an unreliable narrator. When her car finally pulls into the driveway, the transformation is immediate. The tragic orphan vanishes. In his place stands a vibrating bundle of devotion, tail wagging so hard it could generate electricity. He sprints to the door, performs what can only be described as a dramatic reunion scene, and forgets I exist entirely. If I’m lucky, I get a courtesy tail thump. Once she’s inside, he plants himself at her feet like he’s reclaiming lost time. And honestly? I can’t even be mad. Watching the way his whole body relaxes when she’s home is kind of beautiful. I may be the understudy, but I get front-row seats to the greatest love story in this house — and that’s not a bad role to play.
By late afternoon, the anticipation begins. Around 4:37 p.m. — yes, I’ve timed it — Fitz stations himself by the window like a tiny, furry security guard awaiting the Queen’s arrival. Every passing car gets a hopeful ear twitch. Every footstep outside sends him into full alert mode. I’ll say, “She’ll be home soon, buddy,” and he’ll glance at me like I’m an unreliable narrator. When her car finally pulls into the driveway, the transformation is immediate. The tragic orphan vanishes. In his place stands a vibrating bundle of devotion, tail wagging so hard it could generate electricity. He sprints to the door, performs what can only be described as a dramatic reunion scene, and forgets I exist entirely. If I’m lucky, I get a courtesy tail thump. Once she’s inside, he plants himself at her feet like he’s reclaiming lost time. And honestly? I can’t even be mad. Watching the way his whole body relaxes when she’s home is kind of beautiful. I may be the understudy, but I get front-row seats to the greatest love story in this house — and that’s not a bad role to play.
Share this article:
