I grew up in a world where dogs were appreciated in theory but never allowed in the house. This comes standard for many black families in America, especially in the South. While my mother claimed to love dogs, I never actually saw her touch one. In fact, she banned them from ever laying a paw inside our home. They were, however, allowed in the backyard. My father’s affinity for them was a little more literal. He was the one who would rescue stray dogs from roaming the streets. We had a few of them as pets, but their residence always seemed to be short-lived for one reason or another. One was tragically hit by a car, while a few ran away from home, never to be seen again. We were allowed to go outside and play with them, but we had to wash our hands immediately afterward (a bath or shower was preferred). My mom’s minimal tolerance of them came from her mother, who thought dogs — and all other animals — were despicable creatures. If she knew you owned a dog — even if that dog was not present — she wanted little-to-no contact with you.
As you can imagine, a childhood like that made my relationship with dogs a bit theoretical as well. I loved them as a species, but I’d never really formed an intimate bond with one. That is, until the spring of 2016. My husband and I had discussed owning a dog for years, but I never thought it…
