My dog liked almost everyone, so I promised Harun our first shared outing would be simple. He said the same of his female dog. At the park entrance the animals barked at each other so loudly that we ended up on opposite sides of the path, apologizing to passersby. Harun tried smiling to soften the situation. I held the leash and wondered why my dog's behavior felt like an assessment of the man I wanted to date.
We had met without dogs at a friend's dinner. We talked for hours, and our shared love of animals seemed extra good fortune. I pictured long walks together, two leashes, and a little household that assembled itself. After the first encounter Harun suggested going out alone next time. I thought he was abandoning an important part of my life, though he merely wanted coffee without competing to be heard.
We tried several more short walks at a distance, without forcing closeness. Sometimes it was calmer; sometimes we returned early. I made no general advice about animals from it and expected no miracle. Yet I stubbornly added up their reactions as signs our relationship could not progress. Harun noticed my disappointment after every unsuccessful walk and asked whether he was choosing my dog as a friend or me as a partner.
The question hurt because it exposed my secretly simple picture of love. I wanted everything to fit without remainder: people, animals, schedules, apartments. Harun loved his dog and would not remove her from his life to prove devotion. Nor did I want to remove mine. We could seek appropriate help with their meetings, but need not turn every evening into an examination of whether we might someday live together.
We began meeting after separate walks. Initially it felt unnecessarily complicated. Then I discovered the pleasure of a date without constantly checking an animal beside my feet. Harun listened well, sometimes cooked overly spicy food, and loved films whose endings I did not understand. None of those qualities could be judged from barking in the park. I was getting to know him slowly, without a canine approval committee.
We still live separately. Our dogs are still not always delighted to meet, and we no longer retell that as romantic tragedy. One afternoon Harun waited outside the cinema without a leash and with popcorn. I sent him a photograph of my dog sleeping on his cushion. He replied that his was sleeping too. We entered the cinema, four entirely different beings content with their own arrangements for the evening.