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I named him Pancho.

Not like the pull-over poncho. Like the nick name for Francisco (don’t ask- I’m not Mexican, but it’s a thing). His full name is Señor Pancho, just to be official.

My husband and kids met our new doggie for the first time the day he arrived at our house. I had already committed to scooping him up at a pet adoption fair thingie the week before. The lady from the rescue brought him down and checked out our house and yard. I think she was making sure we weren’t hoarding dogs or something.

We passed whatever criteria she had in her mind (we still don’t know) so she took her collar off him, handed us his vet records and was on her way.

We had a dog. The boys were over the moon.

He smelled like trash and dog spit so we washed away his stinkiness and his old life as our first activity, baptizing him into our world. I’d never had a dog and had no idea what to do with him next.

My husband, Leon, had one as a kid; Princess was her name. She was a black, sleek, loving dog and was some kind of shepherd or collie. A great companion for an only child. But his dad wanted a guard dog. So one day when Leon arrived home from school he went to the gate to greet his dog as he always did. “Princess?” he called. No reply. No happy dog running to meet him. She was nowhere.

After a half-hearted search by his dad the only offering was, “I guess she ran away.” He lied. He had gotten rid of her while Leon was at school. Later, he brought home a mean, unpleasant dog; a guard dog. That was the end of pets for my husband who still missed Princess when he recounted the story. And he loved black dogs because of it.

“Babe,” I said, “I got you a black dog.”

“Yes you did,” he said with our wiry mutt in his lap, curled and content.

It was a good moment.

But the next day he went to work. I was surprised at how being left alone with two kids and a live animal made me feel completely inadequate. Can I even go to the store? When I get home will there be a three legged table, chewed and toppled? Or maybe I’ll find the tattered remains of our shoes, strewn from room to room and pee in every corner as a declaration of canine solidarity. I thought about my brother’s Great Dane. A giant, doofy dog that has eaten DVD collections, furniture and window sills among other things. Her drool spatters across the walls with every head shake, like a perfect Jackson Pollock mockery.

“We are doomed,” I thought.

So I didn’t go to the store.

It was not unlike the way I felt with a newborn– as if the floor dropped out and I was dangling before the fall. Gosh, for being such an adaptable person, I seriously don’t transition well.

When Leon arrived home that evening, I buried my head in his chest and cried. Poor husband. Never a clue what might greet him at the door. “What did they do to you?” he guessed. After being around the block a few times as a parent he assumed the wonder twins (they’re not twins) had tortured me through the afternoon. Not this time.

“We got a dooooog,” I sobbed. “We’ll never go anywhere agaaaaaaain. How will we go on our Big Bear trip with our friiiieeeends?” Oh sheesh. What a drama queen.

He was kind enough not to laugh at me nor did he tell me I was looney or ridiculous, which I was. “We’ll worry about that when it actually happens,” he offered, “it’s still eight months away.”

I like logic so it worked, but it was his careful tone, too. I had forgotten that he would help train and care for the hairy mammal. It was silly to feel like I had to do it all by myself. So I pulled it together and vowed never to do that again. We’ll see how the next major life transition goes, but I’m not making any promises. My track record isn’t that good.

Turns out there was nothing to worry about.

He’s a wonder-dog and one of the best we’ve met. Better off leash than on, he stays with us on walks and waits to cross the street. He doesn’t chew on stuff unless we say he can, he doesn’t drool or bite. He’s gentle with babies and easy on kids. He doesn’t bark unless someone comes up the walk, especially when that ding-dong-ditcher guy leaves mysterious packages on our stoop. The UPS man is Pancho’s nemesis.

The most fun part about having a dog is how he makes us laugh all day, growling at frightening snails and chasing light reflections on the wall. Oh and he doesn’t shed. That’s like the best.

But the poop thing…

You just never get used to it. It’s always gross. Always.

So today when I did my duty and stuck my finger squarely into that mushy pile of ungodliness, I thought,  “This turning over a new leaf and getting the dog out early again thing smells mighty foul.” It was enough to make me miss the pet-less days when I didn’t have to squeeze the morning routine even harder before school. Seriously, “Ain’t. Nobody. Got. Time. F’dat.” I was ready to declare a dog walking protest.

Well almost.

Just then Pancho brushed up against me, dropped his dirty frisbee at my feet and put his paw on my shoe. As he looked up at me with those big, shiny, Japanese anime eyes I thought, “Ok. I’ll keep you, but from now on I’m checking the bag first, ok?”

When we decided to adopt a pet, we had hoped our life would be richer, and it is. We wanted the kids to learn to care for something other than themselves and ultimately easier than their human brother, and they have. The hope was that the rewards would outweigh the chaos… and the poo.

I think they do.