I’ve been wanting my own dog since I was probably 4 or 5. Specifically, I wanted a chihuahua. I think to my little child brain, a chihuahua was the perfect size to be my little furry shadow. I ended up getting a kitten when I was 8, and that launched many, many years of loyal cat fandom and ownership. There was Hallie, Dexter, Frankie, Meko, and then Boomer (RIP my darlings). My siblings took care of their cats, Cocoa and Velvet. Michael also had a not-so-furry bearded dragon named Spike. The Fritz family adopted a loving if overzealous black lab named Pepper. We had a house appropriately full of little humans and creatures, and I loved it. The feeling of caring for something gave me so much meaning back then. When I left Boomer behind with my parents when I went to college (something they never let me forget), I felt a yearning for his snuggles and purrs and leg rubs. But this was what you did when you went to college. You left them behind and went on to the next chapter of your life. If you were lucky, you were able to bring your pets with you. I wasn’t.

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