Songs in the key of Elvis

New year, and a new man in this experience I call my life. Things are so different when a man is in the picture --especially one who likes to cook and is willing to do it for me anytime (well, almost). I love The Man, and I love his dinners. I love everything about him, all of the 10,000 things that make him who he is.
One of the neatest things about The Man is actually not him, but his dog Elvis, a cool, sleek, upscale red dachshund who runs the house. My Man is Elvis's chef, housekeeper, driver, gardener, medic, confessor, and doorkeeper. Me, I'm the one whose fingers smell like beef ribs. Elvis shamelessly flirts with me in order to get a treat, or hopefully a rib bone, preferably one well-seasoned with garlic, sea salt, and Tellicherry pepper. El is always the first one to admire my brand-new pair of pants, kiss the new leather shoes, nose-print the designer purse. He will use all his guile to talk me out of the last bite of the sandwich, the last meatball, even the last piece of carrot. Between meals, he will come to lie down on the couch beside me, head resting on my leg, watching me longingly. Elvis knows the laws of seduction well, and he's willing to do almost anything to get the food he wants.
Elvis and The Man have a history together, and it shows in their daily interactions. They play together, they talk, they smile at each other. (Yes, Elvis can smile, and no, he's not just baring his teeth. It's the genuine article.) They sit, arse to tuches, and dare each other to break wind. Usually Elvis wins that contest, blowing a foul kiss first and running The Man out of the room with it. (Moral of that story: Eat more beans. You never know when you might need the extra gas.)
The most endearing sight is when The Man settles into his recliner and relaxes under the dark brown chenille blanket. That's the signal for Elvis to jump up and parallel park along The Man's long length of leg, snuggling underneath the blanket. The nap is short-lived; usually The Man gets about 45 seconds of sound sleep before Elvis gets too hot and has to crawl out from under the blanket and walk around for a while on The Man, and then jump onto the floor.
These two have been through some rough spots, and the sight of them dozing together in the chair is a picture of familial peace. The Man has been Elvis's life, as owners generally are to their pets, and for his part, Elvis has been The Man's friend, his confidante, his reminder that The Man is, after all, still needed and loved.
Elvis has not given up his place in the house to me, now that I'm sharing his wonderful owner with him; he's simply been generous enough to let me care for the both of them. It's a lovely family, and I'm proud to be part of it.
And El-Dog is glad to get the ribs.