I was expecting a poodle. Or maybe a dainty little Yorkshire Terrier. Something elegant, something presentable. So when my husband and son walked through the door with that… that rescue mutt, I nearly dropped my coffee.
She was scruffy. Too big for a lap dog, too awkward to be cute, and covered in wiry fur that stuck out in all directions like she’d rolled through a hedge. My son beamed up at me, cheeks flushed, eyes glowing.
“Isn’t she beautiful, Mom?” he said. “Her name is Daisy. She picked me.”
Daisy wagged her tail like she understood. Her big eyes locked on mine, hopeful.
I couldn’t even respond.
