The Dog.

How adopting a dog is a lot better than chasing a unicorn

I’ve had a lot of dogs in my life. Akitas, Dalmatian, Rottweiler, Shar-pei, Husky, Jindo, Chow Chow. When we got married, my wife and I bought an ailing Labrador from a Craigslist breeder. She (the Labrador) died three months after our first son was born (The Marley & Me movie couldn’t have released at a worse time).

We didn’t have the heart or strength to take on another puppy. Eventually, we had two children and both tag-teamed us, begging incessantly for a dog, to the point where it became a grousing joke. But my wife and I travel a lot for work, everyone in the family is over-scheduled, and the kids were too young to help (walking, pooping, eating weird stuff off the floor. I’m talking about the dogs!).

Both of our boys are inching into adolescence now and my wife and I have become painfully aware that they are slowly disappearing – whether into video games and Twitch streams or the neighborhood boba shop with their friends. One day, very soon, they will be discharged from this home, even if they wear out their welcome into their 20s or return on weekends to do their laundry. They will not be ours as much as they will be the world’s, and the very thought of that is paralyzing, as they are our world.

I didn’t even realize I was doing it but about a year or so ago, I started nesting. I said “No” more to invitations, and then I ignored most of them overall, to the point where the texts dried up. I found myself being distracted and disengaged when I was out anyway. Typically, unhappiness arises when you’d rather be doing something else. All I wanted was to be home – not out of laziness, introversion, or sociopathy (although I admittedly indulge in all three) – but because that’s where my joy is: my family, my work, my books, my movies.

I scaffolded my life with more excuses to stay home. I loaded up my Kindle with double the books, took on more writing projects, and turned down extraneous travel. My wife and I furnished a gym at home. I got so into working out in our backyard, that I even stopped my favorite hobby, surfing, because the commute back and forth from the beach was taking too much time. And then in the Fall, my wife – outta nowhere – suggested we look into adopting a dog.

This wasn’t the only instance she’d brought it up, but it was the first time that we were on the same page. The circumstances aligned with my 2.0 lifestyle, so we did our due diligence. We followed a few adoption agencies and the algorithm suggested more (Don’t ever “Like” two puppy videos in a row unless you want your Explore page to look like a pet store window at the mall). Soon, I was getting fed ads for herringbone dog beds and overpriced chew toys, even though we didn’t have a subject to decorate. In fact, that was the only part that didn’t come easy.

What surprised me most about the adoption process was how much friction there can be, especially if you have a vague idea of what you are looking for. Months passed by and we were coming up empty-handed. I visited the Carson Shelter to check out a dog I’d seen on their website, but there was already a line forming for its release. The clerk said it wouldn’t even be available for a few more days! I reached out to agencies in the Midwest, in New York, Korea and China and rarely heard back. Millions of dogs enter shelters in America every year and we are consistently urged to adopt and not buy pets. But here I was, earnestly trying to rescue a pup and getting nowhere.¹

I also noticed something else. Most dog rescues advertised pitbulls, aging chihuahuas, or high-energy huskies. To explain the surplus, I’m assuming these are the least desirable dogs in the marketplace. Rarely do you see a commercial yellow lab or a hypoallergenic goldendoodle on these adoption pages and when you do, the comments sections erupt.

Our family was no different. We had a dog in mind: not too small but not too big, soft fur but never sheds, doesn’t jump or bark unless it’s attacking a bad guy, loves company but sleeps all day. We wanted a dog that knew exactly which corner of our backyard to poop a neat pudding swirl on (just once every morning, please) and would march alongside us, off-leash, like a faithful sidekick. Also, the dog would answer my emails and vote the right party lines.

Our friends Mike and Jen referred us to Wags and Walks here in Los Angeles. After all we had dealt with in our journey, I was dubious, but the agency invited us in for a consultation. I described what we were in the market for and Wags and Walks graciously heard me out – as I’m sure they do with all naïve puppy prospectors.

“Well, we don’t have a dog exactly like that,” the patient volunteer said, “But, we do have this great fella who just came in today.”

They showed us a low-resolution photograph on the computer of a handsome, reddish dog with a long snout and soft brown eyes. He was somewhere between Scooby Doo and McGruff the Crime Dog.

“He got picked up by a foster family today, but we can arrange a meeting if you’d like.”

I asked for more photos and all they had was one of The Dog sprawled out on a couch. His legs branched out from one armrest to the other. He was huge.

“Oh yeah,” said the woman, “He’s a big boy. 75 pounds. We think maybe he’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback mix?”

I googled “Rhodesian Ridgeback.” A South African hunting dog that can be fiercely stubborn.

I sent the photos to my dog-owner friend who I just happened to be texting with.

“All I see? A lot of shedding,” she laughed.

We have dark wood floors at home, and we keep the furniture in prime condition. This wasn’t exactly what we had envisioned for our first family dog. Plus, we didn’t know anything about him, not even his breed or temperament. Judging by his teeth, the agency determined he was around three years old, but they couldn’t tell us much more beyond that. Why was he dumped at the Lancaster Animal Shelter (alongside hundreds of others in December)? Who would give up a quality dog?

A few days later, my wife and I (after much debate) returned to Wags and Walks under the condition that if our meeting went well, we’d foster The Dog before committing to ownership. They walked The Dog into the waiting room and he immediately sank the weight of his body into us (what we’ve now understood as his embrace). He wasn’t secure enough to hold our eye contact, but the more we patted his belly and scratched under his collar, his muscles loosened up, his tongue uncoiled, and he collapsed at our feet.

But geez, was he big. He was cutting off circulation to my leg.

“He’ll need a bath,” my wife whispered. The Dog was filthy and smelled like a sour gym. And there were bristles of copper hair all over our pants, like we’d just thrown out an old Christmas tree. The Dog was extremely anxious also, in this strange environment, with strangers. He started whimpering at the door, begging to exit, and leapt up on a table to see outside, knocking over a jar. A terrier walked by the door and The Dog yelped at it between the door crack. It was hard to tell if he wanted to play with or eviscerate the toy dog, but she scampered away, not sticking around to find out.

“Well, what do you think?” the volunteer asked as she returned to the room. “Seems like you guys are getting along well.”

“I mean, there’s no commitment, right? If it doesn’t work out, you can find a new foster family?”

“Of course. You have one week, just let us know a couple days ahead if you’re thinking of re-homing him.”

We looked at each other and shrugged. “Okay, sure. We can do this.”

It happened to be cold and rainy that night (because LA is Seattle now, apparently), so when we surprised our boys at home with their new foster dog, they were greeted with muddy paws and wet dog smell. Nevertheless, the boys were elated, and The Dog was quick to sniff his way through the hallways like a mouse in a maze. My dog owner friends told me their animals pooped twice a day, but this guy took three anxious, runny shits that first night. And although he crashed in his crate after dinner, after midnight, a guttural wailing echoed through our walls like a funeral was taking place in the kitchen.

The Dog’s howls quickly spilled into angry barking. From our bedroom, his growl sounded bloodthirsty and vicious. In my daze, my imagination ran with the idea that a rabid Police K-9 had bust into the house. I stumbled downstairs and The Dog was begging to go outside at 2 in the morning. I didn’t even bother with shoes. We were mere steps along the wet pavement when he barfed a pool of yellowish liquid. My veterinarian friend texted back, “Aww poor guy. He’s anxious.”

I didn’t leave The Dog’s side for the rest of the night, and in the morning, my wife found us asleep next to each other on the living room couch.

“This is gonna be an adventure,” I grumbled as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

Candidly, this experience wasn’t what I had romanticized as our family’s picturesque dog adoption. I panicked that we’d made a poor and rash decision, had gotten our kids’ hopes up, and worst of all, teased The Dog with a warm home.

Days passed and I was losing faith. The Dog was taking four shits a day now (!) and they were the size of a squash. I was stepping into chocolate cakes in the most random places. His thunderous bark would bellow at the most inconvenient times: during work Zooms, whenever an old white person passed by, or at 3:30am in the thick of the night. When I’d run downstairs to shush him, I’d find The Dog barking at the moonlight mist or at his own reflection in the window.

Yet, because I was spending so much time caring for The Dog and because he was taking me so far out of my comfortable routine, I started to bond with him in unexpected ways. Due to his separation anxiety, I took him with me to work, to meetings, to pick up my sons from practice. And because he felt like a child to me, I almost felt justified using the carpool lane. My Explore page flipped from rescue puppies to dog training tutorials. I grew slightly empathetic to how people got radicalized into crazy dog owners -- the ones who dress their pugs in holiday sweaters. By week’s end, we were sliding a raincoat over The Dog’s shoulders on evening walks (hey, it was to protect his health!).

Months before, I hadn’t foreseen owning a dog. And just days prior, I couldn’t have imagined that this would be the dog we’d adopt. But the calculus changed the more we were forced to invest in each other. There’s a saying about how you save a dog’s life and then it saves yours, but perhaps it’s not so corny. We’ve been betrayed and let down by humans, so it’s easier to let our guards down with pets. They fill our time; they infiltrate our minds and then our hearts. Then, we find ourselves writing love stories about them at midnight…

I’m sure I will write a lot more about pet ownership over time, but as obsessed as I’ve gotten over The Dog, I’m even more fascinated by how one animal has been so disruptive and transformative to our homelife. Then, I think about how this dog was set to be euthanized. What a waste of a perfectly good boy. How a door could have closed permanently on a better, more enriched world for our family.

The most sobering irony about that is I would have been the one to close that door, because of my hardline requirements and expectations of what The Dog should be. I spent months on end trying to manifest a unicorn, not a dog. This could have gone on for years, if not ever.

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I have a lot of friends who are navigating the single life through dating apps. It’s a crude comparison, but I noticed how many parallels there were to the pet search.

“LA is full of Pitbulls, Chihuahuas, and Huskies!”

Swipe, swipe, swipe.

“Weird hair.”

“Too old.”

“Wow, she’s had a lot of puppies.”

Swipe, swipe, swipe.

When I was a kid and we wanted a dog, my dad drove us to the pound. The ammonia smells and unyielding cries were overwhelming. The hose water draining waste out of the cells and down the cold, grey cement. Grey mutts cowering in corners, licking their matted fur.

“Take your pick,” the kennel worker would say, as if he were Mr. Miyagi opening a yard of classic convertibles to choose from.

Cage by cage, we’d take a long, hard look at our options. There might be six or seven dogs who were healthy, and of those, maybe three of them had real potential. But you’d make do with what you had. A Beagle looking up to you with its doting eyes. A Malamute champing at the steel door frame to get at you. Back then, everybody fantasized about a cartoon dog like Snoopy or a best friend like Lassie, but those types of companions were bred for thousands of dollars. If you squinted hard enough into the shadows, you could make the Sandlot Beast your Beethoven…

But it wasn’t about the dog you’d adopt. It was about the relationship you built with The Dog over time. The effort you put into training The Dog, the tricks you’d teach it, the frustration of chasing it down the street when it spotted a squirrel. Over time, you and The Dog changed each other, and that made you – individually and collectively – a new thing. Something that didn’t exist before. In streetwear, we call this a “collaboration.” In life, we call it a relationship.

Too often, we put the emphasis on the perfect partner over the perfect relationship. But by focusing on the relationship, we can find ideal partners.

The deeper I plunge into my screenwriting work, the more it’s evident that stories are about relationships. And there are life-changing stories waiting for you out there if you are willing to let them happen. We live in a time where we can AI-generate the life we imagine, curate our romantic partners like seasonal fashion trends, and tailor the pets of our dreams. The hot button catchphrase these days is “intentional.” Lead your life with intention! Be purposeful and proactive! Be the MAIN CHARACTER.

Although I celebrate these sentiments, I also believe it’s important to leave room for discovery, accidents, and discomfort. It’s okay to take a supporting role sometimes and let the universe be the main character. In relationships, nobody wants to writhe through the distress of personality clashes and resolving disagreements. In pet ownership, who has time for training and conditioning? But that’s the storytelling and worldbuilding that make the relationship. That’s the inciting incident, conflict, and breakthrough that round out an unforgettable saga. Have you ever heard of a movie where everything worked out perfectly from the opening?

We are one month into dog ownership and The Dog has become an inextricable member of our family. It’s getting harder to remember what life was like before The Dog trailed its muddy tracks through that doorway. Initially a clumsy and unlikely fit, he clicks so well with our lifestyle now, that we’ve already DNA-tested him to see what exact breed composition he is (Turns out he’s part Golden Retriever and part Great Dane with a splash of Mastiff and Pitbull!). If we were to ever rescue again, I’d look for another cocktail just like him. But of course, as we all know, I’ll never find one.

I will, however, run into something different. And together, we will make something new.

1. I even heard that many of these pet adoption agencies – including the celebrity-backed ones – were secretly puppy mills or exploitative scams. Some of them make you pay just to apply to be a foster. They’ll post one photogenic dog every few weeks, but the dog may already be spoken for or nonexistent. There are, of course, noble rescues that are simply disorganized because they’re volunteer-based. But then there are also those that miraculously discover a cardboard box of brindle French bulldog puppies on the side of a freeway to bait Likes and Comments. Anyway, that’s an investigative journalist MONOLOGUE entry for another day…