He was cradled in my husband's arms when I came home from work that day.

"Oooh [cooing sounds]! How cute! Whose puppy?"

My husband looked at me through long lashes with a tentative smile and said, "Ours."

Which led to our last screaming argument, his leaving the house to cool off and a few weeks of simmering. I have severe allergies and would become the de facto caretaker even if my husband claimed he would take care of him, so, I was not thrilled.

The puppy stayed. We named him Kara, which means black in Turkish. My husband had found him in a auto mechanic shop being abused by the pitbull daddy - apparently because he looked more like his Rottweiler mum. He was covered in oil and being pushed away from his mother's milk repeatedly. So, my husband felt compelled to save him. He wrapped him in a towel and brought him home.

He threw up oil all over the backseat during the drive. My husband bathed him until the water ran clear and Kara was the beautiful black and brown puppy I found in my husband's arms.

How could I banish him after hearing his story?

My only condition was that he had to be a sweet dog. All the stories of violent Pitbulls had me very concerned since our son was five at the time. (And overjoyed to have a puppy as you can imagine.)

I needn't have worried. Kara was the sweetest dog you've ever met. He almost never barked so if he did, you knew something was wrong. He loved people and only ever barked at two: and they deserved it. One was the contractor who took our money and ran.

Kara was so smart. Regardless of which bus my husband took home from work, he could feel him coming and would go wait in the corner of the garden a few minutes before the bus came. Then he would run the whole length of the garden as my husband walked up the street. He would wait on the front lawn, sitting yet tail wagging, with barely contained excitement.

He wasn't allowed on the furniture, but often, towards the end of his life, I would come home and find him curled on the couch or the recliner. He'd look up so happy to see me, then remember, uh oh, I'm not supposed to be here. Slowly, he would get down, tail between his legs and go to one of his doggie beds as I tried to keep a straight face.

He brightened our lives for ten years.

I swore after losing my two German Shepherds, Sam and Brandy within eleven months of each other, that I could never ever go through that deep pain again. They had long blessed lives where they loved large and knew that they were loved. One day it just hit me, why would you not want the blessing of a dog in your life? Life is short and filled with so many trials...We hear constant chants of "live your best life." How could I possibly do that without the joy of a dog?

I met my girl, Houston, when she was four weeks old and picked her up at 8 weeks. She is beautiful, bright and simply a joy. She is well behaved, and yes, she would protect me with all her might. She has blessed me in so many ways that I just can't begin to tell you. I truly don't know what I would do without this precious being.

A dog is simply one amazing heart who loves you unconditionally during your good days and bad days. No matter what kind of day you had - they make it better. These darlins' are always happy to see you, and they celebrate you every time they look at you. Talk about your ride or die true blue companion - it just doesn't get any better. She goes to doggie daycare.... and yep, I didn't see that one coming, but while I am at school she can run and play with her buds. We are living our best lives...

Today, my girl Houston is celebrating her second birthday! I give thanks daily to share this life with her. Hug a dog - it is good for your soul. Say a prayer for those dogs, cats, and all animals waiting for their forever family.

Hund. Son of Dog. First of his name.

Thicc boi. In neck, in body, in mind.

Wants to fetch stick. But won't bring it back

Thinks there is endless supply of sticks.

What is personal space? Something for lesser dogs

Everything is a seat for Hund

Feet, lap, couch, car, table, shoes.

Sporty guy. Loves to run, loves to swim

Loves to hunt rats in the kiwi vines

For the sport and also his human's 'GOOD BOY!'

Best friend is Luna. Brown Kelpie with underbite

She's cute and loves to wrestle and swim in waterhole.

Life on the farm is full of adventure

So many things to bark at - Hund is a big security boy

Human doesn't always appreciate high level of security

This bamboozles Hund.

Likes to jump. In human's arms, back of ute

Will climb avocado tree, 'cos that makes human laugh

Rides in car are fun. The vet is not fun.

Please no more vet for Hund.

Favourite thing is barbeques

And parties. And sticks. And pats. And swims in waterhole.

And running. And bones. And dinner. And cuddles.

And chasing the car. Or tractor. Or motorbike

So many favourite things. Life is good.

I've never had a dog. Before you call bullshit, give me a minute to light the story.

Marcus had a dog. This was well back before we were tight. A Boxer, he named Jock. He liked the way it sounded, kinda exotic, kind of sexy, in an unobligating, irreverent way. He was in his late teens and maybe it wouldn't fly now, but at the time, it made sense, alright? Alright.

No leash. Stay at the heel, go everywhere bud. That was Jock. He had just one flaw. One fatal flaw. Cats. He couldn't stand the pretentious oversized rodents and blew a mental fuse whenever he saw one. God meant for cats to be chased. And that was how Jock met his end. It was his blind conviction. He ran a cat into traffic. The rat escaped between the tires, and Jock didn't.

No amount of calling from Marcus could bring Jock to his senses.

Nevertheless, a good dog. No dumb mutt. Loyal and driven.

His Uncle Tonio had a Doberman. I'm no snob for purebreds, but I note it makes an invaluable difference, in character. He died nameless; an important, yet insignificant part of the whole. It remains for me a summary of the selflessness of Dog. Of understanding. Pack and hierarchy.

The tale goes that ol' Tonio was a nice guy overall, but a braggard, and an alcoholic. An unfortunate combo. One night the two of them, the man and the dog, climbed the eight flights to Marcus's flat. There were a few fellas over, drinking and smoking, and they got to talking about bitches and mutts, and what makes a good dog Great.

Uncle Tonio knocked his shot back and rattled the glass on the table, wiping his mustache with the back of his hand, lifting his cap back a bit for emphasis-- letting off some heat.

"I'll tell yah what makes or breaks a Dog. If I whistle 'whewt' here!..."

...and he pointed at his dog with full command, full attention,

"and say '_____ JUMP!'  he.... "

He had him. And yeah, the Doberman jumped.

Out the open window, eight stories down.

You might say, that's stupid. But I say, that is Dog. And that is Man.

And I've never been had.

**This is a True Story**

I'm thinking about having a dog.

I can think of lots of good reasons, worthy.

I'm thinking maybe a Whippet or a Frenchie, or a favorable mix, because that would match the family lifestyle. It would be good to care for a dog, young or old.

Having my eye on this, someday, I noticed a bulldog-pooch pic lockscreen on my co-workers phone the other day. I don't remember her name. We run into each other like once a year. It's a big company. I was displaced momentarily on call at one of our sprawling locations.

"Is that your dog?" I ventured, stricken. It could after all have only been some cute wallpaper stock.

"Yeaah, that's our Lavendar," she beamed behind tinted glasses, and touched me. On the arm, like we were friends. A sort of pet.

I'm not against touch. There's just something about some people's touch that takes something from you. That's what I felt. I hoped it didn't show on my face.

"Is it a bulldog, Frenchie; or a Boxer... or a mix...?" I said displacing my disturbance with sincere interest, small talk. I had only seen the picture for a couple seconds.

"Both! how did you know?! but she's on the small side. Takes after the French Bulldog more, right?"

"Oh, I love Frenchies," I added remembering a delightful monograph I'd read in which the writer/enthusiast said Frenchies are like potato chips... you can't have just one... and that is saying a lot...

She interrupted my thinking: "But I told my family No More. No more babies, no more puppies. No more rescues. No more. And I can't deal with either end," she said sweeping the bangs off her brow, and holding her temple like staving off a migraine.

My visuals all over the place, but I tried to keep pace: "Uh, huh."

She touched me again.

"I just can't deal with the potty training, or the incontinence. I can't. I'm DONE."

I nodded, sympathizing, for her as much as for her charges.

She looked about 65, though, it's not age that matters. She faded good humoredly.

"You're right," I thought to myself: "Best save your strength-- for when you need it."

My sweet grand pup, Sir Lancelot, was a rock of devotion, steadfast and ever true - always ensuring the security of our home.

The alien came out of nowhere

Big and fast and round

Slithering on its belly

With a boastful, angry sound.

I sprung into quick action

Always prepared for the worst

I’d show this alien a thing, maybe two

Attack just like I’d always rehearsed.

I barked and I barked until out of breath

Bared my teeth and gave a fierce growl

Then I pounced on that alien’s really long neck

Stopping him dead in his tracks with a big howl.

My master paused and gave me a smirk

(Of praise cuz I'm savage, of that I am sure);

I stood ever ready between the two

Ensuring my universe stayed all secure.

I bit its neck, best to check it was immobile

I’d show this alien its rightful spot

So, pulling, I moved it to the trash bin

Where I was hellbent it could sit and rot.

Strangely enough, that was my last rescue

My master has banished me to the outside

That damn alien’s enjoying all the comforts of home

While my living conditions have all been downsized.

I impulsively brought Yoda home when I saw him getting bullied by his littermates at a Humane Society/Petco event. All I wanted was some cat food. Spike, soon to be Yoda, was the cutest thing I'd ever seen. He's 13 now with classic Chihuahua rot mouth; the essence of haunted aquarium, yesterday's fish, marinating in a barrel. When he was a puppy, he ate a stranger's used tampon out of a trash can at a job sight. Dutifully, I reached down his throat to pull it out as he was suffocating, warm strawberry soft serve. I had to take a scalding rape shower. He also ate 2, gigantic 80% cocao chocolate bars out of a friend's purse and lived to tell the story. I dress him up like John Waters sometimes because of the striking resemblance; especially with an ascot and pencil mustache, it really pops. He loves cheese, car rides and soft blankets. I want to get a Golden Retriever but Yoda has yet to fully forgive me for bringing Conan home. He's a good boy so I'll spare him the trauma of raising another puppy.

Conan tolerates car rides because he lives for adventure but is terrified of looking out the window when the car is moving so he keeps low. He's the spawn of my mother's bougie Coton De Tulear. I was there for the birth and was the first human to touch him. He looked like an itty bitty piglet. Ever since his eyes opened he's been obsessed with me. I had to take him home because I knew that, by the way he looked at me, nothing else would ever love me like that. Due to experiencing pup-hood in the woke wasteland of Washington State at the peak of Rona, where asshats were wearing 2 masks alone in their cars and crossing the street to avoid us, he's leary of strangers. We make a good team because humans make me uncomfortable too. It's why we moved to the country. But I digress. His favorite words are, "load up," "walk" and "cookie". On death row, his last meal would likely be a hash of cat litter, soiled paper towels and turkey. 

I got a golden retriever puppy about four months ago, or at least I thought I did. I know, I know, "adopt don't shop," and everything. But have you seen golden retriever puppies?

After having her for this long, I'm not entirely sure I got a dog. Maybe they gave me something like a shark or a dinosaur. My arms are covered in scratches, my furniture is covered in bite marks, and my floors are covered in fur.

But her face. Her little face. With her long tongue and her oversized ears (which are the softest things I've ever felt). She has these big eyes that can make you melt.

So I forgive the wounds and the destroyed house. Scratches can heal, furniture can be fixed, floors can be vacuumed.

I will say, though, golden retrievers are very well named. They do, in fact, retrieve. They retrieve sticks from the yard, leaves from the bushes, even dirt from the flower pots! They will retrieve all of these things and give them to you as a present! How sweet!

Okay. If you must know about my dog, he is annoying. Or she. I'm not sure which.

Anyway, the little light-brown cockapoo hangs out on my couch. When I sit there to write or watch television or talk with friends, the dog sometimes stares at me. It does not move, but just glares at me with shiny marble-like eyes -- until I pick it up with one hand and set it further down the couch, so that it's looking at my wife.

After all, the thing was a birthday gift to my wife from her sister. And as you may have guessed, it does not have a name. The dog, not my sister-in-law. And she (the sister-in-law, not the pet) gave the gift knowing that dogs and I do not get along. I was bitten as a child while playing, drooled on, bitten again as an adult on the way to work, drooled on again, and... Sorry, back to the dog on my couch.

My wife says the little cockapoo can't hurt anyone. It is unable to move or bark or bite because it is only a stuffed toy.

But the dog on my couch is annoying.

I once had a fluffy little puppy.

I had gotten it from my cool farmer aunt. Timeframe, probably 12 or so years ago, I can't pinpoint it on the dot.

It was my first ever puppy so I was ecstatic but also afraid that I could be bitten by the dog or somebody else so naturally as a child would, I acted different.

Little did I know that that furry little fella would become my most cutest most playful ever furry little friend. A buddy I would often come around to play with but my bestie at the time I never did that well. Why so? You ask. Because I was a shy kid who never really talked much, I was shy and timid. That was me then.

Anyway, moving on and back to the point, I gained a loyal companion with eyes so bright. A tiny little chestnut I'd become concerned with most days and most nights. It's been a while now, years I mean, but I still recall its name, Sonic based on the well-known cartoon.

With a wag of its tail, it made my heart sing a thousand merry little tunes. But I suppose that's the way it goes when you love something, ain't it? That's how you do.

It carried a coat of brown so deep, soft and fluffy also like a pillow to sleep.

Its playful antics brought me so much joy like when it would chase its own tail and gleefully run around. Who knew that I could carry such a wide smile -

it must have been its cute little face, full of innocence and charm.

One time it fell asleep, while play-biting one of my dad's shoe.

It made me laugh, and my heart grew more and more fond.

For in that moment, I saw pure bliss. It reminded me of a baby that knows not what joy it brings. To the one who owns it, comfort and happiness; from it you receive unconditional love.

I thought so this must be the kind of things dog-owners ramble on about.

Though we walk not together anymore for its life on this plane is gone; that night as I saw it lying there life-less on the ground,

I ran to my parents' room where my tears did shed. I was saddened that night as I sat crying on their bed.

That was a single part of the story, its death, but the brighter segments are more present in my heart still. It was a wonderful dog and though it never got to grow older because sickness consumed it early on, it was my lovely forever first and last puppy who has a place in my heart.