And perhaps most important:
4. No calling each other Mommy and Daddy.
We would love our dog, we agreed, but we would not parade him around in tight sweaters or instruct people to, “leave a message for [insert dog’s name]” on our answering machine. If either of us noticed our friends rolling their eyes in response to something we said or did, we were to quietly alert the other one we’d gone too far. This dog would be our dog, not our child.
Yet with even these rigid parameters established, my unraveling was nearly immediate.
Finding the One
When we arrived at the shelter, we immediately sought out the dog I’d scouted online. He was smaller than I’d imagined but just as somber. Unlike the other pups we’d met during our search, there was no unbridled jumping or excited peeing. For a ten-month-old, he seemed serious, even knowing. And a little sad.
I was smitten.
The drive home from the shelter was what I imagine it feels like leaving the hospital with a new baby. I had this overwhelming instinct to protect the bewildered, vulnerable being now in our care. With Mike driving, I crouched next to our new charge in the back of the VW bug, his big soulful eyes at once trusting and ringed with fear.
We named him Uno, because he is our first dog together. Right away, I learned to adore the way he smells—the pads of his paws like pizza, his ears like homemade artichoke dip. A whiff of his snout—I kid you not—suggests that grilled cheese sandwiches are frying nearby. And behind those wide-set imploring eyes, beneath that luscious cocoa fur, is the most gentle, sensitive little soul ever to draw a breath.
And so our life together formed. Evening walks at the park, kibble treasure hunts at dinner time. In those early days, Uno would plant himself at the foot of our bed each morning and let out a few indignant barks. “Are you still sleeping?” he was clearly asking. “It’s 4:27 and I’ve got a laundry list of crap I gotta sniff today.”
