Last summer I babysat my best friend’s ten-week-old German Shepherd.  I had forgotten how hard it is to take care of a puppy, and if you have too, let me remind you.

He was not yet housebroken, so I was careful not to trip in any wayward puddles. At any sign of an impending squat I quickly snatched him up and raced outside to the grass.  His sharp little puppy teeth innocently found their way to every single drawer knob and rocker bottom in my house, despite my attempts to guide them to things less dangerous to chew. He raced like a victorious bull through the screen door that eventually fell in surrender around him. He shredded not only the newspaper that was supposed to help him learn housetraining, but every single toy that his owner sent with him. My floors looked like cotton fields with all the white fluff scattered across them.

And yet, he was so darn cute. My voice was strong in the moments when I scolded him, “No!” but he was quickly forgiven as he breathed puppy breath into my face and licked me with his happy tongue. He chewed my flip flop then looked at me with soulful apologetic eyes that melted my heart. Who cares about flip flops? I thought to myself. His clumsy paws got tangled in my feet, and before I could even reprimand him, I laughed as we ended up on the floor. And when he finally fell asleep and snuggled at the foot of the bed, I smiled at the sound of gentle snoring and little legs prancing in happy puppy dreams.  I fell in love with this dog – and he wasn’t even mine. Imagine how I’d feel if I was the one who chose him out of the litter to call my own.