It was no ordinary beanbag. Well, actually, it was quite ordinary, which was part of the problem. It was a sturdy faded blue cloth bag, not a modern bright faux leather piece of eye candy. It sat forlornly in a corner of my boyfriend David’s living room hiding from the next Goodwill run before my dog Pickles commandeered it.

She didn’t have much choice. At David’s house Pickles wasn’t allowed on the furniture. Or under the table. Or in the kitchen, at least when we were cooking or eating. And really, when else are you in the kitchen? The list went on. 

A 20-pound mutt, OK maybe 22 pounds, Pickles is after all part beagle, a breed that lives for food, Pickles took the limitations in stride. At least the furniture limitations. The limited kitchen access was something else. Still, Pickles was nothing if not adaptable. A birthday present from a past boyfriend, albeit a present I chose myself, Pickles had been with me since puppyhood. She accompanied me in my move across the country and waited patiently while I spent a month in India, another in Burma and a few more wherever else I found work as a photographer. 

It wasn’t as if Pickles had a say in the matter. Still, she was a good dog, the best present any partner had ever given me. At ten years-old, Pickles and I had been together longer than I had been with any man. The boyfriend who gave her to me came in a strong second. We were together seven years. He knew better than to fight for Pickles when we split. He got the cat. I got the dog. All of this is by way of saying Pickles and I are close. 

That my best friend was a furball was not unknown to David. On the dating site where we met, I mentioned owning a dog. My profile picture had a dog in it. To keep Pickles’ privacy, and perhaps a shred of my own, the dog in the picture was not Pickles. It was pretty clear I liked dogs. It was also clear by the message David sent me that he had actually read my profile. That was the first thing I noticed about him, he was interested in me, who I was as a person, and not just the pictures of me. He also was cool about Pickles crashing our first date – and our second. Both were hikes. It wasn’t so much that I needed the moral support as Pickles needed the exercise. If the date proved to be a waste of time, I figured at least Pickles would get a walk.

Those dates did not prove a waste of time and after a few more dates David and I were officially a couple. We were cute together, holding hands on walks, cuddling in front of the living room fire and comfortable enough with each other to sit in silence. He didn’t hurry to fill the empty space with even emptier words. When David spoke it was because he had something to say, and it was rarely a parrot of what other people were saying. He thought for himself. We didn’t always agree on things, but he always listened to what I had to say. Really listened. In a world filled with distractions David focused solely on me. It was the rare occasion when he glanced at his cell phone, often he didn’t even have it in sight. When he was with me, he was really with me. He wasn’t much of a pasta fan but when he found out I was he learned five different fettuccine recipes and cooked them all for me, on different nights of course. His cooking and overall hospitality – there was always a clean, neatly folded towel waiting for me at his place – meant we usually stayed at his house. Because I was too cheap to pay for a dog sitter Pickles got packed up with my overnight bag. And that is where the beanbag comes in. 

At David’s, Pickles was given a folded towel to snuggle on while we sat on the couch. Pickles, who used the furniture more than I did at my place, didn’t find a towel on the floor terribly enticing. After some negotiating, I convinced David to let her have the beanbag. No one ever used it, and it seemed far less pitiful than the towel. Pickles seemed to agree. After her first plop into the center of the bag Pickles soon learned to seek it out, climbing up and then sinking down, a little splotch of gray and white fur in the center of a sea of blue that rose around her. 

Even David found Pickles antics with the beanbag amusing. Aside from Pickles sleeping habits and the kitchen and furniture limitations, David was good to Pickles. He used to save chicken skin and pieces of fish from the nights Pickles and I were not with him to give to her later. When he discovered she liked popcorn he sprinkled it around his backyard so she could have a treasure hunt. We both enjoyed watching her nose around the bushes and dig in the grass for each popped kernel. 

When we retired for the night, David was often the one to carry the beanbag to the bedroom. Did I mention he was athletic and tall and without a sagging stomach? As we head into the bedroom, I should probably dwell on his physical attributes a bit: 6’3, broad shoulders, slim build, 6’3, yes, a whole four inches taller than me. It was nice having someone big enough to lean against, to hold me up, to support me. When we were sitting or standing side by side I fit nicely under his arm, which would always pull me in just a little tighter. 

At my place David didn’t complain about the books, magazines and other papers that covered the table, even when he found me reading them at meals. I didn’t have a lot of furniture and what I did have was mostly hand me downs: a leather armchair covered with a blanket because a little of the leather fell off every time you sat in it, a dining room table with scratches in the wood from past owners, a bookcase with a broken shelf. I didn’t spend a lot of time – or money – decorating. What effort I put in went to the wall decorations, pictures taken during my trips. In the living room there was a shot of a girl in Burma dressed in a traditional red wrap standing in the middle of a jungle road as well as a picture of lion cubs tumbling together in Kenya. 

The furniture was mostly for Pickles and the occasional guest, I tended to sit on a cushion on the floor. But Pickles was used to her creature comforts. Which is why at David’s she followed the beanbag on its journey to the bedroom like an eager puppy, practically tripping David in her excitement to get to the room and back onto the beanbag. She usually plopped down before David had fully placed the bag on the bedroom carpet. Where the beanbag went, Pickles went. If we were late moving the beanbag back to the living room in the morning Pickles would remain in the bedroom cocooned in what we began to call Pickles’ beanbag. 

It was the night before our first trip together as a couple, to Thailand for two weeks. We were talking on the phone and had just decided when to meet at the airport in the morning when David brought it up.

“I’ve decided to get rid of the beanbag,” he said.

I was too surprised to answer. Eventually “what” and then “why” slipped out.

“I don’t want it in the living room anymore,” David said, seemingly oblivious to my growing discomfort. “I wanted to let you know in case you wanted it.”

“But Pickles loves it,” I countered.

“You’re free to have it,” he said.

“She has plenty of places to sleep at my house, that is her bed at your place.”

“Like I said, I am getting rid of it. If you want it, let me know.”

I hung up soon after. There wasn’t much to say. If the beanbag could get tossed out so heartlessly, I worried our relationship was also on unstable ground. Without Pickles’ beanbag it would be difficult for me to stay at David’s. Dogs like routine, familiarity. Pickles might pace and sniff and otherwise prove annoying when she found her usual bed gone. Not just annoying but downright pitiful. 

The thought of Pickles wandering from room to room in search of her beanbag made me sadder than it should have. It also seemed pointless. When I wasn’t there David could easily hide the beanbag in the garage or a closet. He liked to rearrange his living space, but this seemed more spiteful than practical. 

I had seen David’s cruel streak before. Because it was underhanded like this, I brushed it off, made excuses. He claimed to not recognize what he was doing, to not understand other people’s feelings. On the spectrum, that’s what some would say, so I excused it. It was easy to do because it was usually directed at others. He would be curt to someone then he would turn to me with a smile that quite literally was just for me. 

While I felt a twinge of guilt for the person being shunned, I forgot it quickly with David’s attention focused on me. I knew I wouldn’t always be the one in his good graces. I had seen signs of how he handled those who were closest to him when he was angry with them. One week there would be a framed photo of David’s son by the fireplace. There were few, make that no, photos in the living room, so when one appeared it was hard to miss. It was a candid photo of the two of them together. The kid wasn’t smiling but then he seldom did. He was a teenager. His eyes didn’t have a twinkle or anything, but they seemed to show a smidge of happiness. David was smiling. He had a nice smile. He was a good-looking guy with dark eyes, a tan face and a full head of hair, a rarity among middle aged men. 

A few weeks later the photo was gone. Knowing how sensitive kids could be, especially children of divorce, I told David he might want to put the photo back before his son came over. He didn’t respond. But the photo reappeared soon after.

Other photos made brief appearances. There was a photo of David and his brother, another of David and his parents. Both disappeared as unexpectedly as they had appeared. Then one day maybe a year into our relationship there was a photo of the two of us. I was thrilled. And apprehensive. Every time I came over, I searched for the photo, as if its existence was evidence the relationship was secure. I would internally sigh with relief when I saw the photo. Even so, there would be a nagging doubt. I might be safe this time, but what about next time? 

It was not an unfounded fear. Aside from the photos other things, including signs of our relationship, had a tendency to disappear. 

The first vanishing act happened early in our relationship. It was during that blissful time when all you can think of is your new partner and all you want to do is make them happy. David was sending me texts with songs that made him think of me. He bought me flowers just because and rarely showed up at my house empty handed, there was always a little gift or a toolbox with him. The toolbox was for all the home improvement projects he took on at my place without me even having to ask. OK, I may have done a little querying like “oh, hey, wouldn’t it be great if that light switch actually worked”. But just a little. And David listened and did something about it. So, when he complimented a colorful abstract painting I had in my home I immediately asked the friend who had made it for another to give to David. The friend let me choose from several paintings. I picked a small blue piece. The color was one David would like and the size meant he could easily work it into whatever other wall hangings he had. 

David declared the painting “very nice”. He took care finding a good location for it. It started in the living room, in a prime spot by the door. It looked nice there. During a later visit his dad complimented it. David replied it reminded him of his favorite pastime, golf. I wasn’t really sure how he had gotten to that, but I was happy he liked my gift. 

Then it moved to another corner in the living room where it was a little less noticeable. Time passed and it migrated to the guest bathroom. I was a bit miffed, but the bathroom wasn’t necessarily a bad place, any guests who were liked were bound to spend long enough visiting they would need to visit the bathroom at some point. 

Then one day the painting was missing from even the bathroom. I checked the bedroom, the office, even the teenager’s room. The painting was nowhere. I tried to address its absence without being accusatory.

“What happened to the painting? I asked.

“You know I don’t really like it,” he said. 

This was news to me. 

David continued. “I tried it in a bunch of different places, but it just wasn’t working.”

I wasn’t sure what to say other than “Oh”. 

“I put it in the garage,” he said. “Maybe it will work there.”

I nodded, amazed I had come to a place where I was actually praying a painting I had given him was liked enough to remain in a garage. 

It wasn’t. 

Later it disappeared. 

The demise of the beanbag seemed a dismal way to begin an international trip together. I tried to put it out of my mind. David’s terrible timing had one advantage, there was no time for Pickles to visit David’s place before the trip. The pup’s heart would not be broken yet. 

Suffice to say the vacation in Thailand didn’t go well. The man who used to save all his attention for me now barely saw me. A few days into the trip David stopped talking and I stopped trying to get him to. The next conversation we had after our return was our last as a couple. 

“We need to talk,” I said.

He must have sensed what was coming because before I could do it, he did it for me. “We aren’t working,” he said. 

It should have ended there. Pickles and I walking off, leaving him next to his favorite place, a golf course. But a few months later David called. I didn’t answer because I feared ending up alone, but because I liked being alone. In past relationships partners had expected me to be by their side for family dinners, nights out with friends and sporting events. Aside from having no interest in spending three hours freezing outside while players on a football field far below stop and start and stop while various calls are made, I require a lot of alone time. David was OK with my extreme need for space in a way no other man had ever been. With David I could be alone and have a partner, I seriously doubted anyone else would give me that. That is why I answered. 

I kept listening because he said something few people say: he was wrong. The sorry that followed was more expected, but still nice. That he wanted me back was the clincher. 

I didn’t give in quite that easily. I was open to resuming my free golf lessons out but made no promises about where that would lead. It led initially to David and I hanging out again. Every time we met, he smiled that smile at me and really listened when I talked to him. It was like it had been at the beginning again, when we were both happy and trying to please each other. He even fixed my busted toilet on a Friday night. He was so different from the man I had traveled with in Thailand that I forgot they were the same person. 

Pickles and I were back at David’s house. To prepare Pickles for the beanbag-less house I brought her travel bed. I was arranging it in the living room when David interrupted me.

“I already have a bed for Pickles,” he said.

Had he come to his senses and brought back the beanbag I wondered. 

“Really?” I said, genuinely surprised.

“Yes, come see,” he said.

I followed him toward the back door. There on the floor was a small cardboard box with a towel inside. The contraption looked pitiful and far too tight a space for Pickles. Still, David’s effort was endearing. He smiled at me expectantly. 

“Thanks,” I said.

We went back into the living room where Pickles was enfolded in her bed. When I left the next day, I left Pickles bed for next time we were there. Leaving it at David’s would save me the trouble of remembering to bring it next time. 

Except the next time I met David at the golf course he brought the bed.

“You left this,” he said, holding out the rumpled red and plaid bed. “I thought you might need it.”

“Oh, thanks, but Pickles has another at home. That one can stay at your place.”

He kept the bed held out toward me. 

I took it. This time I couldn’t ignore the signs. The relationship was over – Pickles needed her travel bed again.