Over lunch with Zaddy today, our conversation wandered back to a familiar place — pets. More specifically, the dogs we never had. And, like every time before, it left me with a gentle ache I couldn’t quite shake.
“We need a family dog, Mom,” Zaddy said, despite the fact that he now has a home of his own. I laughed, that knowing kind of laugh parents have, and asked the question I’ve asked for years: Who’s really going to take care of it?
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Both Zaddy and Darius had begged for a dog since they were kids. But deep down, we all knew the truth — the daily walks, the vet visits, the cleanups — it would’ve fallen on me.
This time, Zaddy shared that if he were to adopt, he’d choose a Pit Bull. “They’re treated like Black people,” he said plainly. “Always judged. Always misunderstood. First ones abandoned at the shelter.” His words carried weight, and I could feel his heart in them. I admired his empathy — and yet, I couldn’t ignore my concerns.
When he was younger, it was a Golden Doodle he wanted. I remember suggesting a German Shepherd once, but he dismissed it quickly. “They shed too much,” he said. I smiled at the memory. Ironically, that’s one of my own hesitations too. Even the so-called “hypoallergenic” breeds leave their trace.
I finally admitted something I rarely say aloud: I have a mild allergy to dogs. Nothing serious — but if I’m around them too long, my throat starts to itch. And with how often I travel, the thought of rushing back just to feed or walk a dog feels overwhelming. My lifestyle simply hasn’t made space for that kind of devotion.
Then Zaddy painted a dream for me. “Imagine it’s Christmas morning. We’re all gathered around, unwrapping gifts. Then the kids say, ‘There’s one more present.’ They roll in this giant moving box... and inside is a puppy.” His eyes lit up like a kid himself. “That would’ve been the best memory. And the dog... he’d probably still be with us today.”
I felt a lump rise in my throat. He was right. If we’d gotten a dog when the boys were little, we would’ve shared an entire chapter of life with that furry companion. A Golden Doodle lives 10 to 15 years — long enough to grow up alongside them, to be part of every season, every milestone.
Zaddy told me about a friend who recently had to put their Pit Bull down. “Those videos always get me,” he said quietly. “Spending that last day doing all the dog’s favorite things — it just breaks me.” And in that moment, I felt it too — the unspoken fear of loving something so deeply, only to one day have to say goodbye.
But then he said something that struck me even deeper: “If a stray came up to me on the street, I’d take it home. No hesitation. I can’t stand seeing a dog without a home.” In Houston, he said, stray dogs are everywhere. It breaks his heart.
I remembered the one time he actually did try to adopt. He brought the dog over to my house, full of good intentions. But life caught up to him. When he returned, the dog was standing on the bed, barking nonstop. “I just kept wondering how long he’d been like that,” he said, a little guilt in his voice.
Now, he says he’s waiting until he has kids of his own before getting a dog. “I don’t want to rob them of the chance to have that kind of bond,” he said. And I understood. Maybe the next generation will create the memories we missed out on.
Still, I gave him a gentle warning: If you bring a dog home for the holidays, don’t expect it to climb on my furniture. I’ve still not forgotten the time someone brought their dog over — and it peed on my favorite rug.
So here we are — the story of the dogs we never had continues. A quiet, almost mythical presence in our lives. Maybe one day, the story will shift. Maybe one day, a wagging tail will greet us on Christmas morning. But for now, they live only in our what-ifs, our almosts, and the warm corners of our imagination.
