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Last month, I was played. Scammed. Bamboozled. And it was an inside job: My wife, Sheryl, and our son, Harrison, teamed up on the con.

Our family has always had a dog. But after our Anatolian Shepherd, Cannoli, passed away a few years back—the B.D.E., as we called him for “Best Dog Ever”—we were heartbroken. There had been no serious talk of adopting another until recently, not coincidentally, right around the time our other son, Donovan, enlisted in the Navy. Determined to remedy a partially empty nest by expanding the family, Sheryl and Harrison forged their partnership. It seemed to me that every time I would enter the room, they were deep in conversation comparing and contrasting various breeds. “Uh—no way,” I’d interject. “No more dogs. We already had the B.D.E. How’re gonna top that?”

Then, a day or two later, I noticed Harrison looking at a puppy on his phone. When I asked about it, he said, “What? Mom sent it to me. She wants to go see it.”

This time, I was emphatic with Sheryl. “No dog. I already let you adopt three cats, and I don’t even like cats.”

“But look at him,” she pointed at her computer, “he’s sooo cute.”

“No, no way, not a chance,” I stammered. “Besides, you can’t pick a dog based on his picture.”

Long ago, I don’t remember who it was who shared this wisdom, but I remember him saying, “You don’t choose the dog, the dog chooses you.” He then explained how he would go to the animal shelter and sit back and wait for his dog to approach him, rather than the other way around. Since that time, that’s always how we’ve found our dog. They choose us. “Remember how banged up and sick Cannoli was when we met him?” I reminded her. “Then, he just leaned into you, like he was giving you a hug? That’s how it works. Cannoli chose us.”

“So, then,” she smiled, “do you want to go to the pound with us?”

“Not only no,” I said, “but absolutely not.” I ran through the long list—again—of all the reasons why adopting a dog was a terrible idea. All the time. All the money. Then, she started spamming me with emails. I would receive messages with a link to a local animal shelter. Reluctantly, I’d click on them, look at the dog, then tap out the same message: “You don’t choose the dog, the dog chooses you.”

The reply would come back, “Well, then, let’s go see who chooses you.”

No. Absolutely not.

But mother and son were relentless, and now embracing an air of inevitability about the whole thing, which really started to annoy me. The email frequency increased, as the photo line-ups at dog pounds as far south as Los Angeles were being scoured. Again and again, I’d reply with a message that left no room for interpretation: “Nope” and “No way, Jose” were popular choices.

One day, the subject line read, “Knox.” There was no message, only a link. I clicked on it and found a Rottweiler pup with his head half-cocked and ears perked, as if trying to understand something. I leaned in. There was something about this dog, almost like he was trying to speak to me. I don’t know why, but throughout the afternoon, I kept clicking the link, kept locking eyes with this curious, young guy, Knox. Still, I had no interest in expanding our family, but I found an opportunity to finally put the conversation to rest. I agreed to accompany them on a visit to the pound the next morning on the condition that they drop the subject afterward. “You can get a goldfish instead,” I said.

We arrived a few minutes after visiting hours opened and Sheryl inquired about Knox. “Oh, he’s such a sweet soul,” the attendant said. “But he’s sick. I’ll bring him out in a separate pen after you visit the other dogs.” The pound was full. Every type of dog imaginable, and just about every breed represented. But it felt like we were on a reality dating show—none of them were “that in to us.”

Knox limped in, wheezing and coughing, both eyes drooping and bloodshot. He reminded me of a punch-drunk boxer struggling to stay on his feet through the final round. Then, as if leaning into the ropes to hold himself upright, he did the same with me, resting his full body weight against my shin. Kneeling down, and massaging the sides of his face, I said, “Knox chose us.”

Thank you to everyone who has had a hand in producing this issue of SLO LIFE Magazine and, most of all, to our advertisers and subscribers—we couldn’t do it without you.

Live the SLO Life!

Tom Franciskovich tom@slolifemagazine.com

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