The average adult makes over thirty thousand decisions each day. The vast majority are trivial. Nobody lives and dies based on how many toilet paper squares you grab. But life will inevitably give rise to weightier choices. What’s my career? Where shall I live? Should I marry this person? What about children? And not necessarily at the top, but decidedly important: Should we get a dog? After all, we’re still living with that same choice we made 16 years ago.

I’m fascinated by how humans make important decisions. Machines might follow a logical path to conclusion but we have this wonderful element called emotion. For my mother and her lineage, the measured purchase of a single television may draw out across years, encompassing countless hours of research and intense debate at holiday gatherings. Conversely, a Chapman could be headed for Oklahoma tomorrow with a trailer ready to go all-in on a random new hobby they just heard about today. This has historically put me at the precarious crossroads of being a collateral beneficiary of Dad’s super fun toys while also agreeing with my mother that it was a silly thing for a person to spend money on.

Allison and I are a balance of these two extremes. One of us will bring up an idea half-jokingly. We’ll both say “not right now” and brush it off. Then, after a few weeks, if it survives incubation, we’ll start texting links to nudge each other. This is when we enter the research phase. A final decision is then rendered by whoever cares the most. In this particular case, that would be the person choosing to light his free time on fire in order to mind a puppy.

We recently saw friends who have made many children and therefore don’t get over to our house as much as they used to. The husband saw our seventy-pound mix breed and asked what the dog’s name was. When I told him it was Lucy, he exclaimed “THIS IS THE SAME DOG!?” Yep, now 112 dog years in, she’s trucking along against all odds. We had Lucy prior to the girls being born, so it has been a life of constant, unwelcomed change. In her stubborn cataract-covered eyes, our little humans do not exist unless they are holding a droppable snack.

Worth mentioning is that we already housed two cats. Lucy didn’t care for them either. Peter, a gleaming feline poster child, makes delightful conversation and is always fun at parties. Frank, on the other hand, is beautiful but oddly mysterious. Despite their differences, this triumvirate had been relatively easy on us. Our felines are catered to by robots while Lucy sleeps and farts the day away. This is a relatively easy homeostasis to maintain.

My reasoning for expansion was three-fold. For starters, the girls could use a companion that would grow up with them and evoke some character-building responsibility. Secondly, while we await the inevitable with our old girl, she’d prove to be a chill role model for a young impressionable pup. Lastly, out of pure selfishness, I wanted a friend to take along for outdoor adventures. The timing was good, if that is ever possible.

There is always this moment of recognition when I’m about to do something with large implications. A hotness starts to throb in my ears and then radiates throughout until a thin veneer of sweat begins to form. Whether the setting is a car dealership, a negotiating table or the checkout line at Costco, I have this semi-helpless feeling that the freight train is in motion and all I can do is mentally buckle up. On that beautiful summer morning in Albertville, Alabama I found myself with a whole bunch of furry adoptable cuteness running around. The heat was coming.

How does one choose a best friend? I had already narrowed my dog preferences to male, under seventy pounds and the regular allergenic kind. Fluff is my jam and we have the good Roomba. In surveying options available within these boundaries, my mind naturally went into risk assessment mode. While the hopeless romantic in me couldn’t rule out an instant soulmate connection, statistics favor the middle of the pack. An overly friendly and outgoing guy was cut. As was the little goober who hid in the back, repeatedly getting stuck in precarious positions. Two of the more independent chaps were selected to move on to the holding phase. From there, I Facetimed Allison for input, but the signal isn’t great in Albertville. I was on my own for a final verdict.

Unlike our haphazard adoption with Frank, I was prepared this time with all the things a proper puppy could need. The crate was decked out and Lando Norris Chapman (a name I pre-selected) slipped easily onto a bed made for kings. A pitiful whimper rang out from the back as we drove away from the only home he’d known for two months of life, but Lando settled in for a nap after only a few minutes. My nerves calmed considerably. This was a good sign.

You always remember day one. Everything is new. Normal is thrown out the window while our new paradigm materializes. Not having had a puppy since rearing two human children, I recall scoffing at those who couldn’t stay anywhere for more than an hour because of a silly dog back at home. In a flash, we are those people.

Children are great for helping devalue all the stuff in your house. We’ve seen some wild oopsies over the course of nine years. There’s the incident when our television was busted with a teddy bear. Or that time we learned never to leave a Sharpie sitting around. A day will eventually come when we can finally invest in quality household appointments, but today is not that day. With Lando, however, we were playing a whole new ballgame. I can’t ever recall Maggie eating parts of our actual house.

The chaos of potty training was totally expected. Razor sharp teeth, crazy puppy energy and a short attention span dialed up a cocktail of sheer madness. I would run into the bathroom for what cyclists term a “nature break.” Meanwhile, young Lando would be nibbling away on a tasty door frame. My head was on a perpetual swivel as our entire coterie adjusted. Thought previously to be impossible, Lucy was even more annoyed. The cats were genuinely displeased. Even the enthusiasm of our girls waned as their bite wounds grew in number. Then, to make things more interesting, Allison left the country for a week…

This puppy thing was, after all, my idea. I knew the schedule and had my usual steely-eyed resolve when staring down seven days as an only parent. Normally I would ratchet up the fun a notch so our kids will like me more - offering science experiments, arcades, fun dinners and such. Not this time. In between soccer and dance commitments, we banded together to shape Lando into a respectable citizen.

While the mayhem between puppy naps was often maddening, one couldn’t help but laugh at the little quirks that emerged as Lando’s personality blossomed. We offered a pile of toys and things to chew upon, yet an iconic yellow cup from a filthy bar in Tuscaloosa was all this pup needed. Lando would prance back to the shower, cup in mouth, so he could bark with maximum acoustics. Maddeningly, his favorite party trick was to nip the toilet paper dangling in the hallway bathroom, then joyfully gallop as far as he could before getting caught. In one go, he managed over fifty feet of run, then did all he could to suspend the reclamation project.

As days of incessant rain hemmed us all indoors, Chapman house began to show the strain of being a very cute war zone. Areas that had previously brought me moments of peace and tranquility were now barricaded due to the mysterious gravitational pull they had on young Lando’s genitals. I aspire to a rational level of cleanliness, which also brings me joy. Less joy filled my heart, however, as I personally handled gallons upon gallons of puppy excrement. There was one touching baby parallel, thankfully, that had me getting used to the experience. Y’all are all friends, so I can admit this to you. There were several times when I was still chewing on carrots, grapes, nuts, etc. and already working a newly discovered cleanup site. Mine is always the weakest of stomachs, but maybe that’s a little love creeping in to get me through it.

Silver linings were struggling to outpace the not so great times. Three days into Allison’s trip, we reached a low point. For such moments, it was a familiar setting…on my knees in front of a toilet. This time the circumstances planting me there were more mechanical in nature - a clog that was defying both logic and reason. Lando’s toilet paper hobby had caught up with us, as had the lack of available drinking toilets for Lucy (she’s a classy gal). I had tried multiple plungers, boiling water, my own flippin’ bare hands, a coat hanger and a 6 foot plumbing snake. Sitting down had become a concept of the past, as I was either reigning in the fury or preparing battlements while the beast slept. To top it all off, our frantic movement about the house had led to several accessories being ripped clean off the walls. Two new holes in the sheetrock and a busted sliding door lay in wait. As Allison casually sipped rosé and snacked on Hungarian delights next to the Danube, I was losing my flipping mind.

The light of a new day brought with it a cautious optimism and an increased plumping budget. Doing is the only way I know how to cope in times of crisis. For his part, Lando certainly intuited a correlation between my anger at the toilet and his actions. He sheepishly cooled his belly on our tile floor as I fished ever further into our pipes. When the clog finally let loose, I rode that serotonin boost down the hall to our assorted other projects. There’s something very empowering about spackling over your sins.

Meanwhile, we had a little dude that was starting to pick up on the lack of screams when he used the bathroom outside. Lando was trying to please us, or at least get as many reward treats as possible. The scales were tipping in a favorable direction.

On Friday morning, the girls and I were optimistic. The weekend offered a bit of relief from our hectic schedule. It also meant that we would be a complete foursome again soon. As had become typical, I leapt from bed in a rush to get Lando outside, back in to eat, then back out again before anything unwanted could exit him. The girls were fed and readied in spurts as I darted back and forth. Requiring another nature break myself, I took solace back in our master bath for a solitary minute or two. Then a tiny little howl of terror rang out, followed by frantic puppy yelps all the way down the hallway…

About sixteen years ago, the Chapman clan was gathering for a lovely afternoon at my parents’ house. Allison and I, engaged at the time, had brought Lucy over for her first meet and greet with everyone. Indy, the hosts’ lovable black labrador, greeted all guests with his usual benign disposition. Things were going swimmingly until young Lucy’s bouncy enthusiasm rubbed Indy the wrong way. One jump too many was all it took to elicit a quick bite to the face. Along with a fresh cut across her snout, Lucy’s face now bore the expression of a dog who had just realized the world was not a safe and wonderful place. Pitiful yelps lasting for minutes not only broke our hearts, but could be heard clear across Jeffferson county. She still has the scar, and frankly hasn’t been the same dog since.

Back in 2024, I burst out of the bathroom all out of sorts. The room was still dark due to our mad morning rush, but I could faintly see a ball of fluff hurriedly making its way under our bed. With Lando recovered, I checked for damage. On his snout was a massive gash, open and bleeding everywhere. His puppy heart rate was blasting out of the stratosphere, but familiar comfort was calming him down. On the bottom of his chin was another notable cut. A tiny black flake of puppy nose dangled loose in the front, creating the saddest of all visuals.

Throughout all this, my two animal-loving children were still sitting in the kitchen, casually making their way through their respective bowls of cereal as if nothing had happened. As witnesses, they were of no use. I told them as much, but they could at least confirm that Lucy was nearby when it happened. A quick look to my right and the old girl was standing there, her graying face looking guilty as hell.

Having paralleled the moment at hand with the scar that still sat visibly on Lucy’s face, it all felt a bit surreal. Was there some twisted canine initiation our dogs must endure in order to properly understand the real world? It pained me, however, to think of sweet Lando changing his sunny outlook. Though his shenanigans to this point had been numerous, they were at least carried out with a smile.

Thankfully, we already had Lando’s first check up scheduled that morning with my brother-in-law. I can’t tell you how convenient it is to have a veterinarian in the family. Uncle Jason, as we refer to him in the company of our pets, glued lil’ Lando’s nose skin back together while deftly avoiding curious little nips of a completely unphased pup. Our little guy was back to his old happy-go-lucky ways, at least until Uncle Jason snuck up the back entrance for a fecal sample. I don’t know if there can be a funnier look on an animal’s face than when they get that surprise.

With Allison back on this side of the Atlantic, we began to hit our stride. Mornings were no longer a game of high stakes traffic control. Toilet paper rolls started to feel safe again. Our nights were reliably quiet as Lando settled into the familiarity of his crate. With the girls gaining confidence, we all learned how to act more appropriately around a creature that doesn’t know any better. Once folks stopped excitedly screaming at his face, he mirrored that calmer demeanor.

Maggie really stepped up along the way, as I hoped she would. While weathering occasional bites and scratches, she took some initiative to train young Lando. Libby occasionally picks her snack wrappers off the floor now. That warms my heart.

While Frank has gone into almost permanent hiding, Peter doesn’t much mind cohabitating with another dog. He just sticks to higher ground these days. Lucy is greeted first by Lando each morning and you can see it in her face that maybe she thought it was all a bad dream until that point.

Meanwhile, Allison and I are smitten. I was worried initially about Lando playing favorites in the motherly direction, but I feed him more often so you can guess where that loyalty sits at present. We’re getting much more outside time, regardless of weather conditions. This has been a welcome adjustment, except maybe for some of the neighbors who have seen me chasing a dog in my undies. After a while, you simply forget that laying in bed later on the weekend was an option. If a creature is that stoked to get started with his day, it tends to rub off on you a bit.

As for the future, our little guy will continue to grow and experience all the things that a human teenager does, just on a more extreme timeline. There will be inevitable bumps in the road. But a friend adeptly cut to the chase, asking “Would any dollar amount buy Lando back now that you’ve had him for a month? Absolutely not. He’s family now. And, while we’re talking about money, it’s time to convince Allison that we really need a bright orange Vespa with a sidecar.