I wanted to be tickled pink last Valentine’s Day; instead I was tickled a shade of brown and thrown a salt lick. I’m a camel, yes. But I’m also a lady camel, and I deserve to be treated with a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T. And don’t you forget it.

So, this time last year, I was kicking back in my La-Z-Boy, drinking a hot cup of java and cranking some tunes à lá Shania Twain. I was really diggin' what she had to say. "Okay, so you're Brad Pitt, " she crooned. "That don't impress me much/ So you got the looks but have you got the touch/ Don't get me wrong, yeah I think you're alright/ But that won't keep me warm in the middle of the night." You see, at the time I was dating a horse. Sure, the rumors held true—he was well-hung and the sex was hot. Not to mention that he had hair as silky and wild as that of Axl Rose, and a bad-colt attitude to boot. He was the epitome of an American badass. After living a boring Texas desert life with my mama and four little brothers and sisters, equine seduction in a trailer-home seemed like a godsend. My mama didn’t like us hanging 'round together—our being of a different subgenus and all—but I was bored, rebellious, and lord knows that I was smitten.

That was in the beginning. The good old days, as I like to call them. After the sixth time that that good-for-nothing, son-of-a-bitch called me from the Animal Detention Facility, however, I knew that our puppy love was about to develop into a decrepit Saint Bernard and finally bite the dust.

It was Valentine’s Day and I was bailing his stallion ass out of a Correctional Stable again. I had heard all of the excuses one time to many: "I’m sorry baby, I didn’t know that was cocaine, I thought it was some fine grained salt that we could have for dinner tonight," or "Darling, when they told me it was grass, I thought they meant the kind that's in our hay-stack,” or "How was I to know that dang mule was a prostitute? She done told me she was unfruitful, anyhow." I had had enough.

To my chagrin, I had actually thought that he could change. Earlier that day, I had prepared a special meal for the both of us: A pinch of water and 3.5 kilograms of oats for myself, and Salted Apple Delight (his favorite) for my main man-horse. I was hoping that today would be different, that we could actually enjoy our supper together and then, perhaps, a rendezvous in the master stable. He had promised me a night of kinky horsing around, if you catch my drift. He was into whips and saddles, and I was just into him. And then the phone call from the slammer ruined it all.

I wanted to forgive him for his latest brush with the law, but I couldn’t bring myself to let bygones be by-gones. It was Valentine’s Day, after all. I was confused and embarrassed. All I’d asked for was some much-needed attention and tenderness. All I’d asked for was that he keep his head out of his ass (or someone else’s) for at least that day. Obviously, I didn’t get what I asked for. I knew right then and there that my mama was right when she told me, “There’s only two things a horse is good for: buckin’ and fuckin’.”

I understood that I had to leave him, but I didn’t know where to go. I couldn’t stand to return home to the judging eyes of my family. I didn’t want my mama telling me that what I really needed was a good man-camel in my life. But, maybe I didn’t want a man of any species. Maybe I just wanted a new life for myself. Fueled by a longing for independence, I started my long trot out of Texas without so much as a look back. To hell with mama, and my no-good man-mare. To hell with the trailer home, the oats and the water. To hell with Valentines Day. I got out of that town like a bat out of hell (props to Meatloaf).

And that’s how I ended up in the fine state of Minne-“snow”-ta. Sure, I don’t see as many camel faces in the Twin Cities as I did in Texas, but Minnesota folk are good folk, and the city is rich with diversity. After all, where else would I find so many young bucks, raccoons, moose, bears and deer? I sure am happy here.

Which brings me to my life today. Turns out my mama was wrong, I didn’t need a good man-camel in my life. In fact, I didn’t need a man of any sort. I found what I needed in the form of a young doe named Cheryl. I met her picking around the garbage of our local Whole Foods Market. She held a bunt cake in her mouth. It was love at first sight. At present, we’re renting a room together off of Summit Avenue, and planning a snowshoeing weekend at Lutsen come February 14. I think this Valentine’s Day, I’ll finally get what I want—even if it doesn’t involve horse cock.