Bernie
Written for the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition 2026
Advanced to the second round of judging
If there were an Olympic event for neediness, my first dog would not only have medaled, he would have insisted on standing on the podium with me, expecting a treat.
I had imagined dog ownership as a wholesome partnership: long walks exploring new neighborhoods, a wing man, perhaps, to help with my non-existent dating life, the quiet dignity of companionship. What I got instead was a small, furry dictator who ran my household with the relentless oversight of someone who did not trust me to survive unsupervised. He mirrored my Type-A personality, needing to walk the same route every day. And my wing man aspirations -- he hated men.
Privacy was a fond memory. I had not been able to use the bathroom alone since he arrived. He positioned himself just outside the door, sighing loudly, as if I had made a series of poor life choices that he needed to correct. If I closed the door fully, he nudged it open with the persistence of a salesman who knows you’re home. When I tried to take a bath, he sat next to the tub and dropped a ball in, fully indicating this was the perfect time to play.
He needed constant reassurance. If I moved from one room to another without announcing my intentions, he followed, wounded, as though I might vanish forever. If I sat down, he would burrow between me and the arm of the couch. Never mind on my other side was another four feet of sofa.
Meals were a communal affair. He ate his food in thirty seconds and then watched me eat mine. He begged. He stared. Judgingly. It was a test. And every time I gave in, I failed.
Walks were both exercise and negotiation. He stopped to inspect every leaf, every smell, every philosophical question left behind by another dog. He believed in the theory that the shortest distance between two spots was a straight line. It made no difference that meant crossing in the middle of an intersection. Meanwhile, I sometimes wondered when my life took this particular turn, controlled by a four-legged toddler.
And yet.
When I was tired, he knew. When I was sad, he sat closer. When I had a bad day, his excitement and pure joy at my arrival home were unprecedented. He celebrated every entrance in the house as if I had returned from war.
Yes, he was needy. Excessively. Gloriously. He required attention, patience, snacks, reassurance, more snacks, and most of my personal space. But in return, he offered unconditional love so uncomplicated it felt almost suspicious.
I belonged to him. And honestly, I think that was his plan all along.