I was expecting a poodle. Or maybe a dainty little Yorkshire Terrier. Something elegant, something presentable. So when my husband and son walked through the door with that… that rescue mutt, I nearly dropped my coffee. She was scruffy. Too big for a lap dog, too awkward to be cute, and covered in wiry fur that stuck out in all directions like she’d rolled through a hedge. My son beamed up at me, cheeks flushed, eyes glowing. “Isn’t she beautiful, Mom?” he said. “Her name is Daisy. She picked me.” Daisy wagged her tail like she understood. Her big eyes locked on mine, hopeful. I couldn’t even respond.

What was I supposed to do—walk her down the street like she was some kind of fashion statement? “Oh yes, this is Daisy. She’s… um… unique.” What would I say when friends asked what breed she was? “She’s a rescue,” I’d have to admit. The word tasted like vinegar on my tongue. I plastered on a smile for my son’s sake, but my thoughts were racing. We’d agreed on something refined, something proper. Not this shaggy, oversized mutt that probably shed all over the furniture and smelled like wet socks when it rained.

Later that night, as my son tucked Daisy into an old fleece blanket and whispered to her like she was some sacred treasure, I stood in the hallway watching. “I’ll never let anyone take you away,” he said softly. “You’re safe now.” I bit the inside of my cheek. He was ten. Ten, and already too soft-hearted for this world. He didn’t understand that pets were an extension of image. A statement. You don’t make a statement with a rescue—you make compromises. By midnight, I’d made my decision. I was going to return the dog.