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never took our dog for the cheating kind. After all, he’s a Labrador retriever—the model of canine loyalty. And if I do say so, he’s a mighty fine example of the breed. He comes when called, sits on command and fetches anything you could ask for, including the morning paper and cans of dog food. With a broad blocky head, he looks like we ordered him straight out an L.L. Bean catalogue. In reality it was the newspaper. We brought our handsome ball of fur home during our first year of marriage and he quickly became our “child.” But three years later, when we moved to a sleepy mountain town—where the streets are like sidewalks and the dogs roam free—our dog began leading a double life.

Upon moving in, we considered installing an invisible fence like some of our more responsible neighbors. Instead, we settled for a collar with his name and our phone number on it. While it may have seemed imprudent to let him roam free in the neighborhood, every time we pulled into the driveway he was anxiously awaiting our return. We boasted about his steadfast devotion. “He’s just not the wandering type,” we’d say.

Other dogs in the neighborhood loved the freedom, but not Bailey. In fact, he’d start to pout every morning as I gathered my things for work. By the time I reached my car, he’d melt into a pitiful heap of yellow fur. And as I opened the car door, he’d release a perfectly-timed sigh as if to say, “Leaving again?”

After about six months of this dance, Bailey began following my car out of the driveway. I was thrilled, figuring he was making a beeline to the gang of friendly dogs across the street. Having memorized the sound of our cars, our astute and loyal dog would still meet us in the driveway every afternoon. He’d run home in a dead sprint just in time to lick our faces as we opened the car door.

But looking back, the signs of his infidelity were all there. Over time Bailey was slower and slower to return in the evenings. We’d sometimes have to call him from our back deck.  It only took a few yells to hear his nails tapping on the blacktop and see a streak of yellow bursting through the row of cedars in our backyard. This routine went on for months without suspect.

My dog’s secret was finally revealed during one of our strolls through our leash-optional neighborhood. Suddenly, Bailey bounded toward a toddler with blond ringlets. I was appalled, but before I could yell, “Bailey, no!” I realized the little girl was squealing with delight. As I caught up to the corner of my dog’s mid-day hangout, I profusely apologized to the mother for my dog’s slobber shower.

“Are you Bailey’s mom?” she asked.

“Um, yes.”

“We just love Bailey,” she gushed. “He comes to see us almost every day. We call him Bay-Bay. We even let him inside, and he plays with Mary Morris while I cook dinner. He’s such a good dog.”

I didn’t know how to process this information. I agree, he is a good dog—a great dog even—but he’s our dog. What was he doing shacking up with the neighbor? We had given him the best years of our married life. Is it our fault we have to leave him to go to work? How does he think we pay for all that dog food? I admit we hadn’t been playing as much fetch lately, but work has been really stressful.

Suddenly, it all made sense—why he bounded across the street with such zeal, why he had to be called home, why he’d begun to look a little plumper. Bailey had another family.

Once his secret was out, my formerly-faithful dog became more overt about his daily activities. One day he came home with green paint on his yellow fur, no doubt from a finger painting escapade. Then there was the Dora the Explorer Band-Aid on his left front leg. Bailey was brazen about his other life. My husband and I began to invent scenarios about how he and his two-legged friend spent the day.

Once after several unanswered calls from our back porch, my husband headed across the street—he could hear Bailey barking but he wouldn’t come. He discovered the two blondes enclosed in our neighbor’s backyard. Bailey was gleefully barking as his two-legged friend rode her tricycle in circles, donning a large, pink helmet.

“Come on Bailey, it’s time to come home,” my husband said.

As they walked down the neighbor’s driveway, he heard the adorable little girl yell, “Bye Bay-Bay! Come back tomorrow and play!”

I don’t like to think about which house my dog enjoys most. He undoubtedly relishes the constant attention that only a child can provide (which we’ve yet to have). And then there’s the game they play where she throws dog treats just to watch him catch them midair. My husband and I try to keep up. Bailey’s now allowed on our bed. We’re more liberal with our table scraps. Still, can we really compete?

I suppose if I consider what’s best for our dog, I prefer to think of him happily playing the day away instead of desolately waiting for us in our front yard. I imagine the feeling is similar to the day your child is old enough to favor a friend’s house over yours. Deep down, you know you’re still number one, but it smarts. Without the conventions of fencing, I’ve come to realize that the dog/owner relationship is anything but simple. No matter how much they love you, you never really own them.

I remember one brisk fall Saturday in particular. My husband and I were puttering around the yard and Bailey, bored, wandered across the street. I decided later to take a walk—one of Bailey’s favorite pastimes—and figured I’d pick him up on my way. When I arrived, my neighbor was blowing leaves in his driveway. I waved and asked if he’d seen my dog.

“Oh, yeah, I think he and Mary Morris are playing inside.”

“Oh, okay. I hope he’s not bothering you. I was just going to...”

“Oh, gosh no. Mary Morris calls Bailey her best friend.”

I walked alone that day. After all, no love comes without some sacrifice.

Merrell McGinness is a freelance writer and editor from Lookout Mountain, Georgia.