He barks at everyone. He barks at steam. He barks at his own farts.

He’s the only dog I’ve ever met who has ZERO reaction to words like Out? Ride? Walk? Nothing. Not even an ear twitch. Not even for his own name.

He can’t just poop in one place. He has to poop a little, turn around, smell it, poop a little, turn around and smell that. He basically makes poop mandalas.

I had to buy a special vacuum because of Rapunzel over here.

My Youngest was struggling with serious health issues – cancer, losing a kidney and all the emotional carnage that comes with near-death illness. They were only ten at the time. They begged me for a pupper.

There weren’t many dogs at the shelter that day. We have two cats and he was the only dog they didn’t have a definite NO on about living with cats. He pranced out with a big grin and Frisky was instant family. Mostly. Who names a dog after cat food? Eldest grumped on the ride home. Later attempts for a cooler name didn’t pan out. Not that it seems to matter to him.

Our previous dog was Highly intelligent. She didn’t need a leash, she understood most words. She communicated in-depth things often beyond my immediate understanding. It was hard having a new dog who’d run down the street at any provocation, oblivious to traffic. Hard having someone squeak incessantly like a chew-toy if I left him alone for a few minutes. Hard having this goddamn hair getting into everything. My first dog (RIP) didn’t have tear stains. Frisky came with brown mucous mudslides down his cheeks natural for his breed. It’s gross dealing with that everyday.

It’s been almost a year.

None of that matters.

Youngest adores him. He brings them joy. He’s tolerant of their aggressive treatment. Youngest decided Frisky is always saying I Love You, and I don’t think that’s incorrect. After months of war, the cats declared him family. They now leave the last morsel of food on their plate for him. They simply won’t touch it until I put the plate on the floor for him. I challenged them once on it and they pushed the plate off their table so he could have it.

He’s always with me. When I am in pain he nudges up closer and licks my arm. Eldest, who nearly spit when Youngest chose him –That! That’s not a real dog! Half of it’s missing! – now cuddles with him. Even lets him on their bed and defends him if Youngest gets too rough. He’s decided the name Frisky is just fine.

He’s a small guy, about the size of a six month old human baby. Perfect for hugs. He’s all about the hugs and the brushing and the food. Poop art is his passion. A simple person.

Sometimes too simple for his own good.

The other day I was prepping some meals and turned to offer him scraps. I was so used to him hovering I didn’t expect him not to be there.

I realized there will be a day he won’t be there. He’s 11 years old and arthritic. I realized at that moment I loved him as deeply as I loved all the animals. I went looking for him with a little bit of alarm. The way it is for any baby who’s location is in question.

The idiot-prince was stuck in my kid’s garbage bin, rammed under the bed. It took a minute to untangle him.

Me: WTF, Frisky!

Frisky: (High Squeaking for 20 minutes)