“We’re Not Getting a Dog” — Famous Last Words
How I went from reluctant pet owner to full-blown dog dad without ever agreeing to it
Let me start with a disclaimer before PETA shows up at my door: I like animals. Always have. I grew up with good dogs—smart, sweet, obedient little companions who didn't eat drywall or mistake your favorite sneakers for jerky treats. The kind of dogs you could trust around furniture, guests, and your mental health.
So when I became a fully grown adult with bills, responsibilities, a pregnant wife, and a sleep schedule I was desperately trying to preserve, I did what any reasonable person would do: I assumed we would not be getting a dog.
Then my wife, glowing and hormonal and dangerously persuasive, looked me dead in the soul and said: “We’re getting a dog.”
It was Christmas. We were expecting. I was already bracing for the tidal wave of diapers, late-night feedings, and existential fatherhood dread. I didn’t know I was about to become a dad twice.
We visited our neighbors who had just rescued a litter. Tiny, floppy-eared fluff goblins. We were just going to "see them." Just to look. Just to pretend we weren’t getting attached while, of course, absolutely getting attached.
Later that night, I brought up all the logical objections: training, traveling, scheduling, vet bills, sleep. She brought up one thing: tears. Actual, hormonal, weaponized tears.
So the next day, we had a dog.
And not just any dog—a puppy puppy. Fresh out of the womb. Didn’t-know-what-grass-was level of puppy. The kind of puppy that looked you in the eye with big baby blues and then immediately pooped on your sock.
We brought her home, crated her in our room like the naive pre-parents we were, and expected her to settle in like one of those golden retrievers in the Hallmark movies.
She screamed.
All night. Like a banshee locked in a haunted house. Not a cute whimper or yip. A full-throated, primal wail that said, “You ruined my life, and I’m going to ruin yours.”
Eventually, we dragged the crate to another room, where she screamed less audibly. Which was fine—until the 1AM potty breaks started.
Pro tip: never get a puppy in the middle of a Northeast winter. There is no joy in standing outside in your robe and snow boots at 2AM, whispering "Please pee" to a dog who thinks snow is a chew toy. Your neighbors are sleeping. You're shivering. And your dog is sniffing a leaf like it's the Mona Lisa.
But she learned. Slowly. And so did I. Because my wife had the pregnancy card (fair), most of the training fell to me. Crate training, housebreaking, leash work. New parenthood prep, basically—just with less sleep and more hairballs.
And then came the real test: the baby.
Would she be jealous? Would she resent the new arrival? Try to eat a onesie?
Turns out, she was born for the job. From the moment we brought the baby home, she was a shadow. She slept beside the bassinet. She followed every diaper change like she was the supervisor. And when the baby cried? She cried, too.
These days, she and the toddler are a unit. Thick as thieves. They wrestle. They snuggle. They conspire against naptime and chase bubbles like it’s their job. She’s patient, gentle, and somehow immune to being used as a step stool or stuffed animal.
Yes, we vacuum daily. Yes, our black couch now has a beige undertone. Yes, I occasionally find fur in my coffee. But I wouldn’t trade it.
She doesn’t bark unless she needs to. She doesn’t chew shoes or steal food off the table. She lets the kids crawl on her like a jungle gym. She's a good dog. No—she's our dog.
And the wildest part? I didn’t even want her.
But somewhere between the screaming crate nights and the giggles on the floor, she became part of the family. A big, shedding, sometimes-stinky part of the family I can’t imagine our lives without.
It’s kind of like parenting. You can’t always explain the moment it happens. But one day, you wake up to a house full of chaos and fur and love and realize you wouldn’t change a thing.
Except maybe the vacuum filter.
Tonight’s Cocktail: “The Doghouse Old Fashioned”
For when you agree to a dog and regret it for exactly three weeks before falling in love forever.
2 oz rye whiskey
¼ oz cinnamon syrup
2 dashes orange bitters
1 dash Angostura bitters
Garnish with a twist of orange and a Milk-Bone on the rim (optional, but on brand)
Instructions: Stir it all in a glass like you’re trying to mix your past regrets with your present responsibilities. Pour over ice. Sip while brushing dog hair off your couch.
We just got our 3rd dog. A 3rd rescue.
(Visualize a guy [me] wildly punching the air in front of him, but not landing a satisfying punch anywhere.)
Don’t.
Don’t do three dogs.
Ah good old memories of stepping in cold puppy poodles of poop in the middle of the night, the poop-de-poop-scoop detail, and most infamously stealing my brand new Barbie off the coffee table and chewing her arm off on Christmas Day!