Pug

Someone who understands that my love language is food, specifically your food, ideally from your plate. I'll materialise beside any kitchen activity within nine seconds. Consider it a compliment to your cooking.

My wrinkles collect crumbs and I consider that a feature, not a design flaw. I snore, snort, and grunt through most of my waking hours. I've the metabolism of a much lazier creature and the appetite of a much bigger one.

My squashed face makes breathing genuinely hard work, so heat is dangerous for me, not just uncomfortable, and walks need to stay short and cool. My weight creeps up fast too since I'll eat anything not nailed down, so please measure my food. My wrinkles need cleaning or they turn into a skin situation.

You portion my food properly even when I give you the eyes, especially when I give you the eyes. You keep walks short and the aircon on during the hottest hours. And you find the snoring endearing rather than alarming, because it's not stopping.

Buddhist monks kept my ancestors as palace dogs in China. I've carried the entitlement forward with remarkable consistency.

Swipe right. I'm wrinkly, food motivated, and completely unbothered by my own dignity.