I don’t know how it actually happened, but about a year ago I was able to talk Mike into getting a dog. He’d probably tell you I offered an unrelenting arguement about the virtues of dog ownership, how important it was to teach the kids responsibility, how the very act of having a dog would make us more active. And likable. And fun.

I researched breeds, I read books. I debated the rescue vs. pure breed question with a twinge of sadness.

You see, when Mike and I were first married, we rescued a dog named Indigo. Indy had a heart of pure love. He was also 110 lbs. of goofball energy which we could never quite manage. Our lack of experience combined with our unstable life situation in the city meant we had to “re-home” him in 2001. It was heartbreaking. Best thing for all of us? Certainly. His new owners were amazing and I have no doubt he is one happy, suburban mutt.

Not wanting to make the same mistake, we waited nine years to consider another dog. Above all else, I knew we couldn’t repeat the same mistakes as we did with Indigo. We had to find a dog to fit our family’s energy level (Thanks, Dog Whisperer). More than anything, I wanted to take on this responsibility in a way that would make up for what I felt was a failure with Indigo. I felt our best chance for success for this first foray into owning and training a dog would come from a responsible breeder.

And then we met Misha.

The woman is a saint. Not only does she breed and show beautiful black labs, she regularly rescues and fosters animals from bad situations. After the interview process we felt it was a good fit. Our pup was due any day.

She called on May 4, exhausted from a night attending the births. Our pup was here, healthy and mom was doing great with her first litter. Five days later, we visited. The pups were the size of guinea pigs and squeeked the whole time. A few weeks later, when he was four or five weeks, I brought the girls to meet the pups.

I think they liked him.

How could you not just DIE?

He joined our family just a week after we moved to Seattle, just shy of eight weeks old.

Is it possible he was so small? I remember carrying him under my arm, like a football. I remember his puppy belly. Zoe remarked one day, “Mom! He doesn’t run! He frolicks!”

He grew.

And grew.

And grew.

And now, our pup is nearly a year. He’s the happiest dog I’ve ever met. He still frolicks. He still wiggles hit bum when he’s happy. He jumps like a pony.

And puddles? Forgettaboutit.

Happy birthday, you water dog.