Theo turned two this week — fourteen in dog years, a small, soft teenager.
What people notice first is his temperament: sunny, open, and deeply human-oriented. Neighbors know me as "the girl with the dog." He's made the neighborhood feel smaller, kinder, easier to inhabit. He loves all people, but he's for sure a ladies' man. Maybe it's familiarity, or maybe he knows they won't be able to resist his begging eyes when he leaves a ball at their feet, pleading for just one more throw.
He'll climb into a stranger's lap without hesitation, walk onto someone's picnic blanket at Alamo Square Park like he owns the thing. With other dogs, though, he's a different creature. He tolerates most, instantly rolls over if one so much as looks at him the wrong way. If another dog goes for his ball, he just gives up and looks sad. I've tried exposure, socialization, every trick people suggest. He is who he is — no amount of park time will turn him into the rough-and-tumble type.
But put him with any human, and he adapts instantly. He's stayed in at least six homes and settles into each one. He flies well, sleeping at my feet in his backpack carrier. He likes going to the vet because of all the different animal smells, even if he hates the shots. The groomer, on the other hand, is a firm no.
At the office, he has a firm routine. He is obsessed with fetch. I've bought dozens of balls, and we lose one or two every week. His "godparents" even made him a piñata stuffed with forty squeaky balls for his first birthday. His pattern never varies: a 10–15 minute ball session, then a long nap on his bean bag beside my desk. Before bed, we do one last round to get him tired enough to sleep.
He's an early riser — eager to get out by 6:30 or 7 in the morning. He hoards socks without damaging them. Underwear, however, is another story. The dirtier the better. He doesn't mind getting wet but hates being wet, and after rain or a bath he rockets around the room rubbing himself on anything he can.
I bathe him in the shower with me, which I've grown to love. Wet, he looks almost like a rat. I can see his face more clearly this way — the precise shape of his skull, his dark eyes, how delicate he actually is under all that fluff. The confident personality is momentarily missing; what's left is just small and cold and mine to protect.
But he keeps just as close a watch on me. In the office, he climbs onto my chair or my desk to watch for my return. At home, he waits by the window; I call his name as I approach just to see him bound into the frame. The reunions are always exuberant, even if I've only been gone an hour. His chosen greeting — licking up my nose — is disgusting and sincere in equal measure. Somehow, it calms him.
He's reshaped my days in ways I didn't expect. Before Theo, I drifted easily between coasts. Now, travel takes planning. He anchors my days in small rituals: morning urgency, midday walks, late-night fetch. He forces me outside during the workday and out of my head when I'd otherwise stay in it. I'm aware of the privilege of being able to bring him to work; without it, we'd barely have weekday time together. Instead, he has a second home beside my desk. And he has drawn out a maternal side of me that feels both instinctive and clarifying — affectionate but firm, protective but not precious.
People comment on his smile, his softness, his inherent cheerfulness. He has a way of softening everyone he meets.
Two years in, this is the shape our life has taken. I don't know what the next two will bring, but I feel better knowing he'll be here to experience it with me — the girl with the dog, perpetually at her side.