Meet Mr Darcy, the love of my life that's also a goblin.

I figured, since many of you follow me on twitter and have seen many pictures of my dog, you may like to be introduced to Mr Darcy. 

Mr Darcy is my fat old pug. I adopted him from the Humane Society when he was 4; he's now somewhere around 11. Darcy was surrendered because his previous owners purchased a champion pedigree bulldog and Darcy kept peeing on him; knowing him as I do now, this doesn't surprise me. When we first got Darcy, he appeared to be deaf, but it turned out he had a raging ear infection that had gone unnoticed. He was actually more difficult to live with *after* the infection was cleared up.

Mr Darcy was originally named Frank, which is an uninteresting name, so I changed it. I loved the idea of saying, "Sit, Mr Darcy," "Stay, Mr Darcy," and "How do you do, Mr Darcy?", which is what I taught him to do instead of the usual "Shake a paw". It *is* fun to say, but he only listens when there's food involved, which ruins the effect.

Mr Darcy is a reincarnated war veteran. He hates all airplanes and, given enough space to do so, will chase them clear across the horizon. He also wails like a drunk Janis Joplin whenever a siren goes by.

Mr Darcy gets yeast infections in his wrinkle and ears, and constantly smells like butt. If you feed Mr Darcy any sort of human food, you will pay for it with an olfactory onslaught for days afterwords. If the stench doesn't kill you, there's always the shedding--constant and year-round, so intense that I have to brush off my socks before I put on my shoes.

He sleeps 23 hours a day, and the other hour is spent scratching his yeast infections, barking at airplanes, or eating. If you are cooking, he will skitter in between your legs, eyes bulging out of his head like he's been jettisoned into outer space, until you finally drop something. 

Darcy eating the garbage.

He is easiest to corale by using a series of short kicks, like moving a soccer ball around a field. He loves to dress up, except when I put his boots on; he passive-aggressively lets me slide them onto his feet, lying on his back, then refuses to flip back over. He just goes limp, like a toddler having a tantrum. 

 

He cannot swim because he is shaped like a pop can, so it is physiologically impossible to keep his face out of the water. The fact that he is thirty pounds concentrated into a 1-foot cylinder is also a factor.

Smiling at me from a car seat he claimed.

Mr Darcy has tumors which are currently sort of benign, but will one day end his weird little life. I think he grows them on purpose, though; it's part of his brand. He has a mysterious tattoo on his thigh that says PIM, which I assume is an old flame. Repulsive and fascinating is Mr Darcy. He's like the Dos Esquis man of the dog world.

 Mr Darcy likes to lie beside the bed while when there's anything intimate going on, and lick his lips. The sound is a terrible, wet, pornographic smacking sound. I usually throw pillows at him 'til he goes away. 

He loves everyone who comes in the house more than me, and this is because everyone else pets him without also trying to clean his wrinkle, put in ear drops, or kick him out of the garbage bag. But I still bring him handmade treats and fancy dog food. Because I adore him.

Darcy has kept me going when nothing else could. I have talked to Darcy like a human being for years, and his companionship has been a godsend. Mr Darcy is part human, part gorrilla, part Boglin, and part gargoyle. He bears silent witness to my adventures and sorrows, and all he asks in return is to be allowed to curl up on my yoga mat while I'm in the middle of a downward-facing dog.

Behold Mr Darcy: my friend, my familiar, and on some days, the only person I enjoy talking to.