After our Millie died last year, it was months before I felt ready to look for another dog, and by then I’d learned that I needed major surgery. The unexpected health setback didn’t dismay me nearly as much as the need to call off the search for our next family member.

“Now it will be months before we can get another dog,” I wailed.

“This is the perfect time to get a dog,” my husband said. “You’ll be happier, and you’ll get well faster if you’re happier.”

I don’t know if I got well faster, but I definitely got happier. Rascal sits in my lap while I read and curls up on my feet while I write. At his side, I encounter the world in a new way. “Big dog ahead,” his worried ears tell me. “Something remarkable passed by here,” his nose insists. Every morning he stands on the back of the sofa so he can watch the same birds I watch from my writing table, though his interest in those birds is more pernicious than mine.