Their romance concerned me from the beginning. As a former high school health teacher, much of my 10th grade curriculum focused on unhealthy relationships. I knew the signs. Equality was key, and their relationship seemed one-sided. I questioned if Molly truly liked Ollie’s “playful” roughhousing. He loved to pounce and pin her, burying his nose in her neck, even when she squirmed to get away. While he acted like it was all in fun, I questioned if their dating games were truly consensual. Yet every time they had the opportunity to get together, Molly jumped with joy and made herself available.
With her large dark eyes and flowing caramel hair, Molly always seemed eager to please. Maybe she just found it hard to say no?
Should the fact that this courtship was between two dogs make a difference?
Adopted during lockdown, Oliver and Molly met as “pandemic puppies” when their owners took them to their neighborhood’s green space to romp in between Zoom meetings. Oliver, a Coton de Tulear from Texas, was true to his cowboy roots. Backyard bred, he lived by a “work hard, play hard” code of ethics. Deeply committed to family, he worshiped his parents and would do anything for them. But outside the house, he could be unpredictable. As his mother, I came to accept that my sweet Ollie had a darker side. He liked a good bar fight. I’m quite sure he packed heat, but I chose to look the other way.
Molly, on the other hand, came from a long line of proper royals. A Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, her bloodline was impressive—and she had papers to prove it. I wondered if she would’ve given Ollie a second look had the pandemic not made the pickins so slim. Out of all the dogs in our shelter-in-place subdivision bubble, he gave her the most attention. And—as is often the case in thorny relationships—questionable attention is deemed better than no attention at all.
“Should we separate them?” I’d ask Molly’s parents as Ollie repeatedly toppled their princess to the grassy ground. “If she didn’t like it, she’d let him know,” her father would calmly reply. I’d bite my tongue, grateful they accepted my son, his manners so beneath that of their daughter’s.
With her parents’ permission and constant chaperoning, the romance between Ollie and Molly flourished. Neither could go outside without vigorously pulling
on the leash toward the other’s home. If Molly’s name was mentioned, Ollie did sideways flips and would cry until he saw her. Once in sight, they’d make a mad dash to fall into each other’s embrace, practically producing cartoon hearts.
They say opposites attract, and such was the case with this love affair. Everyone adored Molly. A friend to all, she had no enemies. Ollie, on the other hand, was a loner. He accepted few into his inner circle. Most dogs he attacked. As his owner, I had to keep him on a short leash when we walked; my feelings hurt more than once when other dog walkers turned on their heels to avoid us. “He’s the sweetest dog at home,” I wanted to shout at their backs.
Luckily, Molly focused on Ollie’s best trait: fidelity. He was a one-woman dog. She knew there had been others—Tina, a Maltipoo down the street, had been an early girlfriend. But once Ollie met Molly, he remained loyal to his one true love. For them, equality came with time. Molly put up with a lot of swagger in those early years, but 35 dog years later, she commands respect. I’d like to think their relationship evolved with maturity, and that Ollie eventually learned deference out of sincere admiration for Molly’s character. However, deep down, I know it’s because we had him neutered.
This article originally appeared in the February 2026 issue.
