It started like every normal Sunday: I planned to sleep in.
It ended with my wife standing at the doorway, holding a muddy puppy in one arm and dragging a leash attached to a second dog in the other, yelling, “Shen Xing! Open the bathroom, we have a flea emergency!”
I blinked at her, then at the dogs. “Why are there animals in our home?”
“They followed me,” she said.
“All the way from where?”
“The animal shelter.”
I sighed. “You went to the shelter, didn’t you?”
She held up her hand. “In my defense, I only planned to look.”
“That’s what people say before falling off cliffs.”
—
Five minutes later, I stood in the living room surrounded by wagging tails, chewed-up slippers, and one particularly judgmental Chihuahua.
“I brought them home for fostering,” she said, already filling bowls with water. “Just until they find forever homes.”
I pointed at the Doberman chewing the corner of our couch. “That one has found its forever home.”
She beamed. “So you agree!”
“No. That was sarcasm.”
“Too late. I already named him Lord Barkington.”
“Why?”
“He’s noble.”
Lord Barkington barked at our lamp and knocked it over.
“Very regal,” I muttered.
—
We survived Day One.
Barely.
She tried to bathe the golden retriever with rose shampoo. It escaped halfway and shook itself dry all over my work laptop.
“Don’t worry!” she said. “Water damage is covered under—”
“No, it’s not.”
The beagle peed on my shoes.
The Chihuahua stole my phone.
I stared at the chaos and asked myself: Was this what love felt like?
Apparently yes.
—
At night, the dogs were supposed to sleep in the hallway.
I walked into our bedroom and found all six of them curled up on my side of the bed.
“Why… are they here?”
“They had nightmares,” she whispered. “And they like your scent. You’re their new dad!”
“They smell like peanut butter and decisions I didn’t agree to.”
She patted the bed. “There’s still room on the floor.”
“For me?”
She grinned.
I sighed and grabbed a pillow.
—
At 3 a.m., a puppy licked my ear.
At 5 a.m., someone (not naming names) farted in their sleep. I think it was Lord Barkington, but my wife still looked suspicious.
At 7 a.m., I found her asleep, snuggled up in a fortress of tails and tongues, smiling like she’d found heaven.
And despite my sore back and dog hair in places I didn’t know I had…
I smiled too.
—
In the end, we found homes for four of the dogs.
But the golden retriever stayed.
“He chose us,” she said simply.
“More like he imprinted on my snacks,” I replied, as he licked barbecue sauce off my fingers.
She shrugged. “Same thing.”
And that’s how we accidentally became a family of three.
Well—eight, if you count the ones she still visits at the shelter.
—
To be continued…
