I was always a cat person.

That is, until I met Jack.

My sister, Collyn, has always shown little regard for my parents’ rules. So, needless to say, I wasn’t surprised at all when she brought a dirty, scrawny dog home from the pound. Mom and Dad weren’t too pleased at first, but Collyn’s persistence and Lily’s unusually good manners eventually won them over.

I thought Lily was cute and all, but I wasn’t just jumping up and down to have a pooch of my own to be responsible for.

Well, Collyn goes through these fads—they usually last about a month or so. Like one time when she was in kindergarten she went through a pipe cleaner phase. Mom bought bag after bag of pipe cleaners for our little creative genius. Then, she went through a spell where she only wanted to listen to music from the 1950s, especially Elvis Presley or the Beach Boys. You get the idea.

Collyn’s newest fad was visiting the animal shelter on a daily basis. Every day, she’d come home with these terrible stories about tiny kittens they were putting down because no one wanted them and shivering dogs crouching in the corner of deplorable kennels. One day, she sent me a picture text message of a little beagle, staring pitifully through a fence at the animal shelter. Collyn insisted that I needed the puppy, and originally I said no. But, as I have mentioned before, my sister is very persuasive and “no” doesn’t seem to be in her vocabulary. So I drove out to the animal shelter to look at the puppy.

I walked to the back of the pound where they kept the dogs and found a malnourished, fleabitten beagle puppy.

And for some reason, I fell in love.

I took him home that day and named him Jack. The first couple of weeks were pretty rough; he didn’t respond very well to potty training and wanted to chew everything in sight. Cleaning up after Jack and taking care of him when he woke up in the middle of the night, I learned I have more patience that I never even knew I had.

However, after about a month or so, Jack finally learned that he’s supposed to potty outside and that our leather couches AREN’T chew toys. After he started behaving better, I could finally start to actually enjoy his company, rather than just worrying about what he was going to get into next.

Now, I’m like a proud parent. Every time I go into a pet store, I have to buy Jack a new toy. I show everyone pictures of my dog and reiterate how cute he is. I think there are even more profile pictures of Jack and me on my Facebook page than my boyfriend and me. Every day, I can’t wait to get home and see my puppy.

All I have to say, I’ve never been so happy that my sister doesn’t know the word “no.”

Judging from my past experiences with pets, I probably shouldn’t be allowed within 10 feet of an animal, much less permitted to own one. You name pretty much any domesticated animal, and I’ve probably owned (and killed) it.

There was Sandy, my hermit crab, who crawled up under my bed and never reappeared. And my rabbits, which my sister’s dog ended up enjoying substantially more than I ever did. And who could forget my adorable kitten, Snowball. Well…that story gets a bit messy. Let’s just say it’s never a good idea to leave the drier open for an extended period of time without peeking in to make sure it’s unoccupied before starting the load.

So when my roommate brought her goldfish, Mr. Phelps, with her when she moved in, I don’t know what I was thinking when I entertained the idea of acquiring my own aquatic amigo. During the first week, it was great fun watching Mr. Phelps flit around in his bowl and live a completely insignificant existence. So much fun, in fact, that my roommate and I decided that Mr. Phelps needed a companion.

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