Not my dogs

They're really not my dogs. I mean, they're mine in the sense that I walk them and feed them and train them and think up interesting things for them to do. But I didn't choose them.

Charlie came to us after my forever-dog died and our malamute was lonely without her. About the same time, my son really needed something furry and cuddly to whisper his secrets to. Chocolate Charlie didn't 'speak to me'. I would have adopted the deaf Australian Shepherd, or the unruly German Shepherd. But Charlie and Dylan hit it off, so we brought him home.

I tried not to make him my dog. I tried to get everyone else involved with his care. I was still mourning the loss of Kiko and didn't want a replacement for her. But in the end, Charlie looked to me for guidance because I was there? Because he thought I needed him? Because he needed me? Not sure.

Chief was part of the litter we fostered for the Animal Shelter. My husband picked him out on the first day when he was just 3 weeks old and really wanted to keep him. I put my foot down, wanting an older dog, a female, a dog that would really be mine. Chief was the biggest, the first to get tired of his litter mates, the first to escape the enclosure, the first to get adopted. But a few days before they all were supposed to go to their new homes, his new family decided they just couldn't do a puppy. So I made a snap decision and we kept him.

Now these 2 brown dogs, that I did not choose, who are not the kind of dogs I'd ever adopt, are mine. Every day we have a new adventure together.