The All-Terrain Stroller
Love, taken to its most extravagant, unnecessary, all-terrain conclusion.
The Cup Holder He Never Asked For
You bought the stroller. All-terrain wheels, a sunshade, a cup holder positioned for a beverage he will never drink, for a dog with four functioning legs who has never once, in his life, requested to be pushed anywhere. This is not about need. This is the Empress in her purest form — love so total it stops calculating what's necessary and starts asking only what's possible.
There's nothing to defend here. Abundance doesn't require justification, and neither does buying the good bed, the orthopedic mattress, the raincoat with the little hood. Let today be for giving more than is strictly required, to the creature who has never once asked you for anything in words.
what may cross your path
- You catch yourself in a pet store aisle holding something absurdly plush and unnecessary.
- Someone raises an eyebrow at how much you spent on a bed for a dog who sleeps on the floor beside it anyway.
- You buy the good treats — the ones in the glass jar, not the bag — for no occasion at all.
- You describe an object you bought for the dog out loud, hear yourself, and buy it anyway.
I give because I can, not because it's required.
Walking the Rest Himself
He climbs out of the stroller at the corner, four paws down, and walks the rest of the way on his own — visibly, almost audibly, embarrassed for you both. The cup holder goes unused. The sunshade shades no one. Somewhere between the driveway and the mailbox, the gift you were so sure he wanted revealed itself as a gift you wanted to give, which is a different thing entirely.
This is the Empress's shadow: nurture that stopped listening to what was actually needed. Not every act of love lands as love — sometimes it lands as a stroller nobody asked for, blocking a hallway, holding a dog who'd rather be doing literally anything with his own legs. Ask what he actually wants before you buy the next thing.
what may cross your path
- The stroller sits folded in the garage, a monument to an idea that didn't survive contact with reality.
- He stares at you flatly when you attempt to lift him back in.
- A neighbor asks, not unkindly, if he's "doing okay" — implying illness, when it's just marketing.
- You realize the thing you bought says more about you than about him.
My love doesn't need a cup holder to be real.