I had always wanted a cat. A subdued lazy lump that took care of itself; an animal that kept to itself and which more importantly I wouldn't have to pick up after.

But of course, my brother Max had had to chose the droopy, drooling face of the boxer in the shelter, and somehow my parents had gone with it against my protests. Back then, three years ago, I had said it was going to end in tears. My tears.

Tugging on my beat up runners, the cause of my problems stuck his slobbering face into my own.

"I didn't even want a dog, why do I have to walk him?" I whined pushing Arnold's squashed snout away. It was such a deformed face. His beady eyes popped out of his head, his nose looked like he had run into a brick wall, surrounded in a deep crevice of wrinkles, and he had the misfortune of an uneven under-bite that always managed to snag only one half of his lip.

"Max is at uni, the dog needs to be walked," my mother called from the stove. There was no point arguing with her. Her ABBA greatest hits album was on and she was in full domestic mode making dinner.

As I glared at her from the kitchen chair as I tied my shoes, my pants began feeling suspiciously heavy and wet. Arnold's fat head was on my knee, my leggings unintentionally mopping up the saliva clinging to his chops. I swore, ignoring his hangdog expression and wiped up the mess on my pants.

"This isn't fair," I glared at Mum as she thrust the leash in my hand. She ignored me and turned up Dancing Queen, leaving me to take the mutt on his stupid walk. If you could call it walking the dog.

Walking Arnold was akin to being dragged behind a stampeding bull. He walked you, at his pace, which mind you was always a sprint, and went wherever he wanted to go.

Today he had chosen the park, known for its sweeping plains of grass and a variety of doggy bums for Arnold to sniff. I hated the place. Even though owners were meant to pick up their dog's shit, I always managed to stand in the one pile that had been missed. Not to mention all the other dogs and their cheery owners I had to deal with who frequented there.

The walk that should have taken ten minutes to get there, took half the time with Arnold's pace and my shoulder was on the verge of being pulled from its socket.

"Now behave," I hissed at Arnold as he ploughed down the path. There were already five people with their canine friends meandering around park.

I had to dodge an elderly couple and their Maltese as Arnold skidded to go cock his leg on his favourite tree. I stood there trying to let him have some privacy whilst he did his thing, when I felt him freeze. He lowered his leg, his head perked up gazing across the park at a figure and their dog.

I knew the stance. Arnold's mouth slowly closed in concentration, his paws spread evenly, tail up, eyes locked on his target. If my shoulder had hurt before, it was about to go through a new experience of pain.

"Arnold, no-" It was futile even trying to tell him to control himself, instead I should have braced myself for his launch. But clearly, I didn't.

Arnold lunged, his hind legs thrusting his body through the air. I stood no chance of containing him.

The red leash in my hand left rope burn at the ferocity it was ripped from my grip. Arnold of course was barrelling full pelt across the green pastures to an unsuspecting figure and dog. His paws colliding with the ground sounded like a galloping horse as he tore up the turf.

The good thing about dog people, is that when a lumbering idiot like Arnold runs full pelt towards them, they don't seem to mind that they're about to be coated in doggy affection. Because honestly as the dumb as the dog was, there wasn't a violent part of his nature. Someone to cuddle and praise him was like Arnold's life goal. He's an attention and affection whore.

"Stupid dog!" I swore, sprinting after him, or at least trying to.

The person with their dog must have heard Arnold's approach, as they were watching the 30kg boxer race towards them.

"Don't worry," I called across the park, out of breath already in my pursuit. "He's harmless."

Surprisingly, my idiot of a dog didn't jump up on the owner as I suspected. Thank god, I could only think to myself as I approached because it became clear Arnold had conveniently chosen the only guy my age, if a year or two older walking their dog in the park.

He was tall, but not too tall in that awkward I-have-to-tilt-my-head-up-to-look-at-the-sky-see-your-face kind of way. His black hair was scruffy and slightly ruffled by the breeze sweeping through the open space.

Plus, his physique said that he would have been a better candidate for running across the field than I was. I.e. he was super fit, both in the physical and aesthetic sense. I'm talking that perfect-lean-muscular-tone-that-doesn't-make-him-look-like-his-junked-up-on-steroids. Not to mention that face of perfect proportions. I was starting to feel flushed and not because of the run.

Well, I thought to myself, Arnold couldn't have chosen a more attractive stranger to jump around. That was if he actually jumping around. His nose was buried under the tail of the guy's dog.

I glanced back to share an awkward apologetic look with the owner, but beneath his sunglasses his face was in shock.

So, Arnold is a bit of a freak with his squashed in snuffling nose and IQ of a rock, but sniffing another dog's butt is doggy protocol. Any person with a dog should know that, but the guy's face was twisted in horror. That's when I actually looked down at my dog, who was in fact, trying to get it on. Doggy style with the poor handsome guy's dog.

His front legs were curled around the other dog so stubbornly, with his narrow little hips pumping enthusiastically. The other dog, a golden retriever was hunched over in distaste, baring their teeth at their attacker which was far enough. Arnold was going to town. My dog was a rapist.

Somehow the last five metres left between us vanished in record time as I burst in on the rendezvous.

"It's okay he doesn't have any balls," I screeched in panic, grabbing the collar of my dog and hauling him off the none too happy recipient of his attentions. "He's been de-sexed," I panted, struggling to pull the straining dog to a respectable distance away. "I'm so so sorry. He's never done that before. Usually he just wants a pat, attention or to play, but not play like that. Oh god, I am so sorry," I spluttered still trying to get my breath back and apologise for the indecency of my sex-crazed dog.

I glanced up, expecting to see the guy storming away in disgust. Instead he was laughing. Head thrown back, mouth opened, showing off perfectly straight and white teeth against tan skin, letting out carols of laughter.

Not sure what to do, I let him finish enjoying his mirth, letting myself catch my breath and wipe away some of the sweat on my forehead.

"Your face," he managed after a while, "when you saw..." and he trailed off, pushing his sunglasses off his face. Underneath were the most warm pair of brown eyes I had ever seen, so familiar that I swear I had seen them before. I would have melted if I wasn't aware that Arnold was trying to get to the calm golden retriever standing patiently besides its owner.

"Yeah, well," I shrugged as best as I could considering my circumstances. "He, my dog I mean, just tried to, well to, mount your dog."

This only brought on another set of laughter out of Brown Eyes.

And somehow in all the weirdness, I found myself laughing along. Awkwardly initially, until I actually was genuinely cackling at the embarrassing situation.

When you laugh, your body relaxes, so without realising my grasp on Arnold had slackened noticeably. The fact he didn't seize the opportunity to the hot piece of ass that was the golden retriever should have tipped me off. But instead it was smell that wafted from him.

Arnold is a big dog with a big appetite. This meant his shits were huge. And boy did they stink.

"Bloody hell Arnold," I grimaced. "You couldn't keep it in until we got home?"

Like a monument, stood an enormous turd, fresh from his bottom, dirtying the green grass. Arnold, straightening from his squat, seemingly pleased with himself.

So, I was now standing in front of potentially one of the hottest guys I had ever seen, with a steaming pile of shit after my dog had just tried to get it on with his dog. I could not have seen how the situation could have gotten worse.

Oh yeah, because I had to crouch down and pick the pile of crap up in a plastic bag, as the other guy stood by not really sure what to do.

It would be best if he just left, I wished silently ignoring my conscience's pleas to keep checking him out, the situation was mortifying enough without having to scoop up faeces to an attractive audience. And thankfully he did, or at least I thought he did.

"So that was horribly humiliating," I murmured to myself as I straightened from my crouch a few moments later. Arnold's shit was secure in a heavy plastic bag ready for the closest bin.

"Just think," a voice interrupted my cursing, "that next time I see you nothing that happens won't be as bad."

Brown Eyes was still there leaning calmly against a tree watching me calmly, my hands full of shit and dog lead.

"Oh definitely nothing can be worse," I sighed. Arnold was already starting to tug on his lead and the bag was swinging dangerously close to my leg. I just prayed that nothing else would happen. The timing was perfect for an exit.

"Well sorry again," I apologised. "I'm going to go deposit this," I motioned to the poo bag, "in a bin somewhere. If you're lucky, you'll probably never see us again, so bye." I gave a sheepish wave with my doggy bag hand and started off down the path, cursing Arnold and his sexual ways and mistimed pooping to the darkest corner of doggy hell. I was so caught up in abusing the dog under my breath that I didn't notice the guy calling me until his hand clamped on my shoulder.

"I said next time I see you," he chuckled, as I spun around in shock, "as in, I want to see you again." He smiled down at me crookedly, flashing his flawless teeth.

"But why?!" The questions exploded out of my mouth. He laughed off my lack of verbal filter.

"You're funny. And I can't really blame pretty girls for their dog's behaviour. Plus Carla," he motioned to his dog, "and I have met Arnold before. Max and I play footy together." That was where I had seen him. He had won MVP (most valuable player) at their last match on Saturday. I had gone to the game due to parental pressure and because the footy club had the best hotdogs.

Sp he played with Max, and Max always took Arnold to training, which was probably where they met. It wasn't as if I had ever went. However, that was clearly going to change, I thought checking out the biceps and jaw of the guy in front of me.

Because, oh my god, he, with the muscles and drop dead gorgeous face had called me pretty. He called me pretty, I couldn't help but squeal in my head. It wasn't something I expected to hear with greasy hair and grubby runners, let alone with my bag.

"I'm Oliver," he stuck out his hand to shake, but of course my hands were filled with other things.

"I'm Tabby, I mean Tabitha," I spluttered as he pulled out his mobile and motioned for me to do the same.

I could only blink as he typed his number into my phone. Taking his phone back, he frowned that I hadn't added my number to his contacts due to my inability to drool at the specimen of a man in a way similar to Arnold and a steak.

"Honestly," he smiled, calling his phone with own to save the number, "I do want to see you again."

Just as I was about to faint in shock, Arnold gave the lead a tug, obviously his eyes on a new set of walkers.

"Maybe without the dogs next time," he called out after as I was dragged away, barely getting the chance to watch his perfectly formed arse walk in the opposite direction.

So, that was how I picked up (more like completely fluked meeting) and began dating the hottest guy ever; with a rapist dog and 2 pounds of shit in hand.