When we put down our beloved dog in September of 2022, I told my husband, “I need a two-year break from having dogs.” He didn’t altogether believe me. He thought I might change my mind.

“I won’t,” I said. “I know myself.” The door to that room was shut, and I wasn’t ready to open it.

Our dog had been wonderful—well-trained, sweet to people, and very bonded to us—and she’d had her challenges. She hated it when we left the house—she would start shaking when we picked up the keys to go, and she got so anxious that she started tearing up furniture when we left. We had to get medication to calm her. She was terrified of storms and beeps and any loud or sharp noises and eventually even plain ol’ rain. Sometimes she would be so scared she would literally try to climb us. And sometimes her anxiety would strike out of nowhere. Especially in the late afternoons, she would tremble below my desk, and I would feel helpless and sad. (And NO, THE THUNDERSHIRT DID NOT HELP.)

I worried about her every day.

She was terrified of the vet, and I hated taking her (though I loved the vet). She was terrified of the groomer (I couldn’t bear to drop her off, so we bought a grooming table and did it ourselves). She was increasingly terrified of more things, and travel became challenging. She would love a dogsitter and then get terrified of them. When we would book a trip, half of my heart was excited, and the other half dreaded leaving her behind, anxious and afraid.

But she was never terrified of us. She and I were extremely bonded, and since I work from home, we were used to being around each other 24/7. I still miss her every day now that she’s gone, but I knew I was not ready to take on another dog.

Still, my husband and I talked about what dogs we would get when the two years passed. We decided we wanted a bonded pair of small adult dogs—dogs past the puppy stage because, frankly, I did not enjoy the puppy stage. I wanted two small dogs who were already starting to calm down. And the bonded part was because we wanted two anyway, and I know it’s sometimes hard for places to adopt out two dogs together.

But as we talked and the months passed, I knew I was not ready. My two-year rule didn’t budge.

Then, six months after our dog died, my husband’s family member had a medical incident. This incident eventually propelled this family member to move temporarily into an assisted living/rehab place. She asked if we could temporarily take care of her two standard poodles—for just two to three months—until she healed. We said yes. I wanted to help and I knew it was the right thing for the moment even though I really wanted a dog-free life. I told myself two or three months wasn’t long.

The two standard poodles arrived. Standard means BIG. They were sweet but not leash-trained, they jumped on our furniture (which we don’t allow), and they weren’t used to being around strangers. One of them was terrified of new faces and places and especially of walking by parked cars. Thus began the Poodle Boot Camp. We walked them every morning, offering treats when they walked beside us and trying to recall all the training tricks we’d long forgotten because it’d been over a decade since we had had to train a dog. We took the poodles to as many new places as possible so they could be around strangers.

They improved, slowly, or maybe it just felt slow to me. I longed for the walks with just my husband when all we would do is talk to each other. I didn’t want to constantly be correcting or praising a dog. But this was our new (but temporary) normal.

I liked the poodles just fine, but I didn’t want to fall in love with them. It was easier to keep the door to all that closed. I wanted some emotional distance.

And, anyway, two or three months isn’t long at all.

Then, as the the family member recovered, she also started decorating her assisted living apartment. Buying furniture. Installing a TV. Getting plants, including one so big that someone else had to pot it for her and haul it in.

“This doesn’t feel like a two-to-three month thing,” I told my husband. I had mixed feelings: I wanted her in a safe place first and foremost. I wanted her happy, and she was—she was thriving in the assisted living place. But, but, but…what about my two-year break? Wah wah wah.

Eventually we all talked. She asked if we could we take care of the poodles longer, and if we did, she would figure out how to take care of them when we traveled, and she’d take care of vet visits and grooming appointments—all of these were my biggest sources of anxiety and concerns. In other words, we met halfway.

They’re still her dogs (which is fine with me and makes it all easier), but we’ve had the poodles living with us seven months now.

“How in the world did we end up with two standard poodles?” I ask my husband all the time. This wasn’t the plan.

But the poodles know our house, our yard, our schedule and rules. We have dog toys on the den floor, a kitchen shelf full of dog treats, and doggie beds all over. The poodles are bonded to me and yes, to my husband, but more to me since I work from home.

Everywhere I go in the house, they follow. They look for me, but in truth I also look for them.

“This is your fault, you know,” I told my husband not so long ago.

He knew what I meant: I loved them.

A door had opened, and then another, and there was a room and it was waiting for me, and I might not have been ready and it was probably too late to turn back.

It didn’t matter anyway. I was in.