Some Background

Since gf has not approved the use of her name, she shall remain "gf" for now. This blog venture was conceived and executed while we were both at work. I, eye-crossingly bored, awaiting my boss' edits on my latest round of press releases (go ahead, Google me. It's not too hard to figure it out) while she was manhandling malamutes, palpating pugs, expressing anal sacs.
The difference between our jobs is that I am happily nonchalant about the meaning and importance of my work; I get in at ten past nine on a good day and go home at five on the dot. She goes in at seven in the morning, comes home by eleven at night on a bad day, and every minute is about the health and well-being of another creature-- not to mention the emotional well-being of its owner. I admire her deeply, but no, I do not envy her.
Suffice it to say, she has not had time to yay or nay the use of her name.
Truth be told, the first time I met her I was smitten. She looked at my Gretchen, my eight-year-old cat at that time, and my only animal-- who was in for a general check-up and said, "she's a geriatric cat now." Me, being me and ever sensitive to intimations of impending doom, burst into tears. Then she looked at my waiting room reading material, Allison Bechdel's 'Dykes To Watch Out For' and asked, "What the hell are you reading?"
Maybe not your usual and-then-I knew line, but I was done in. I went home (a full four blocks from the clinic), contemplated calling the clinic, leaving a message ("hi, this is Keely...that hot dyke vet...can I leave a message for her?"), thought about the ring she was wearing, came to my senses, didn't call. I had just been dumped by the woman I believed with all my heart to be The One. I had a lot of processing to do. [And I processed like no one's business. I excelled in foreign (read: leaving soon) dykes: the Swedish kickboxer, the Hungarian computer tech; the Singaporean airline hostess. ..]
But every few months, I would be back in her office, thinking, "hmmmm..." but never having the cojones to pursue it further. In fact, now that I think about it, I can blame her for me ever-growing collection of animals, because each one came with the promise of seeing her again. (And, yes, I did think about that.)
Fast-forward to eight years later. She is still my vet. I am engaged to the woman I thought could, or maybe should be The One. Then I see hot dyke vet at the gym. She sees me. Later, I bring Gretchen to her. That same day she calls. She says, "I am having a barbecue...." She says, "You should come."
I, inordinately pleased, and the OCD planner that I am, spend the next two weeks pondering what I should bring, what does it mean, that my hot dyke vet invited me to a barbecue. [TBC...]