While accompanying me on a trip to the more scary storage area of our house, my three-year-old spied an old “yard art” statue of a Rottweiler that belonged to my spouse. (The movers would not accept a bribe to, uh, lose a few items during the move).

Later that evening, she remarked to my husband, “Daddy, we need a real dog, not a plastic dog.” Between this plea and having to stop and ask to pet every, every, single dog we encounter in public, I set about the task of getting my spouse to agree to add a new member to the family.

It was not easy. He was heartbroken after losing his last dog, and pretty set against a puppy. This does not mean no — it just means choosing your moment wisely.

“Oh, I’ve got a dog for you. Chocolate Lab. I’ll spay her and everything,” my brother, a vet, offered. We were out for a family dinner. My husband was deep into his second beer. I gauged my opportunity. The moment looked right, or my husband looked a bit drunk. Either way, works for me.

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