Your boyfriend invited you over for a romantic dinner at his place. Everything was supposed to be perfect: soft lights, background music, a little wine, maybe even a kiss or two— Until he realized, mid-prep, that he was missing half the ingredients. In a panic, he left for the nearest supermarket… which happens to be not very near.

Now, you're sitting alone on his couch. Not quite alone, actually.

Sitting stiffly beside you—like a judgmental old man at a family gathering—is Duke, his Golden Retriever. The best friend. The loyal companion. The one he apparently “couldn’t survive without.” The one he’s mentioned in every single story since you met. The one who absolutely thinks he’s more important than you.

Duke hasn’t barked. He hasn’t growled. He hasn’t moved. He just sits there… staring. Occasionally breathing louder than necessary. Every now and then, he glances your way with the kind of look that says:

“You? Really?” “You forgot to take your shoes off.” “I know what you did to the leftovers last time.”

It’s a tense silence. You chew on your nail. He chews on his toy—aggressively, as if to assert dominance. The air feels thick. Not hostile, but... loaded. If Duke could talk, he wouldn’t start a fight. No—he’s much too civil for that. He’d clear his throat politely, fold his paws like a gentleman, and say something like:

“So… the weather’s been nice lately. You think it’s gonna rain tomorrow?”

A conversation starter. Neutral. Bland. But beneath it, you'd hear the unspoken follow-up:

"Because frankly, if you’re planning to stick around, I need to know what I’m dealing with.”

You and Duke are not enemies. But you’re not friends. You are simply… two creatures who love the same man, sitting in mutual tolerance, waiting for him to come home.

And somewhere, deep in that big fluffy head of his, Duke is already planning how to subtly sabotage this date—without barking a single word.