But for the fleas, I say it's better than having a boyfriend. The whole, dependable routine of it:

Finishing the day, undressing, climbing up onto my big, soft bed, and there waiting on the floor next to my feet, sits Cleo. She waits with her most expectant look of the day, ears alert, a slight pant on her tongue, and I call her up. She leaps on the bed and without a fuss, turns three times (clockwise) and curls up at my feet. It's too cliché how much I enjoy this. She makes me feel safe and reminds me how good my life is at this moment and all moments. We sleep. She doesn't snore, steal the covers, roll around, or wake me up. She doesn't get up too early or sleep too late. When she sees my eyes open in the morning, she sneaks up to my face. This is my cue to make room for her next to me, where she stretches out and spoons with her back curved into my stomach. I rub her belly and stroke her face. She digs her body into the covers with pleasure. The part I love about this is that she's been wide-awake, probably since dawn, waiting for this.

And then I got a boyfriend.

"Don't let Cleo sleep on the bed," he cajoled. "There's not enough room...her hair is all over the place...she lies on my feet...she smells...she's breathing." And finally, "...dogs belong on the floor."

Cleo knew something was up. My boyfriend and I got into bed, and Cleo waited. No call to get up there with us, and I felt guilty. She curled up on the floor next the bed. After a few weeks, she stopped asking.

That was the first three months. Slight inconveniences, minute changes, small compromises. "Do we have to take Cleo with us?…it's just you and me this time, okay?…does she have to sleep in the bedroom with us?…she's making too much noise…Cleo's spoiled, that's the problem…Cleo should really sleep outside…her hair is all over the place…she smells…she's breathing."

Another three months and the bedroom became a "No Dog Zone."

Another six months passed and Cleo slept in a box under the stairs when my boyfriend was over.

His clothes piled up in a chair by the bed. His shoes appeared in the closet, and his razor sat for weeks at the bathroom sink, wet with daily use. He spent most nights at my house. His cat missed him.

I made the choice to have Cleo sleep under the stairs, it's true. Not only to please him but because the dogs acted out at night when he was over every day. I even bought the kennels myself - Cleo and her mother, Patra, were banished from the bedroom. And, it seemed to me, from the forefront of my thoughts; I fed them, I walked them, but the intimate sleep time no longer belonged to us.

Do I have to choose between them? My choice, then, should be obvious… Or no? You tell me…Vote for Cleo or vote for the boyfriend in the DOGMA chatroom. You may just save a relationship or two.