Cottonwood, Arizona, where I am temporarily making my home, has its fair share of dogs. Feral packs of vicious, growling, salivating dogs patrol every yard and its accompanying cinder-block-elevated trailer. They snarl and lunge at you from behind seemingly too-short fences as you walk by—this is of course to protect all those broken down cars, rotted bicycles, and non-working toilet tanks— making pedestrian life less than pleasant. The other day while I was out running, one such dog jumped over a fence to chase me down the street while its owner looked on in amusement. Perhaps he thought I was a UN representative, come to take away his right to bear arms? Eventually, the owner feebly called out the dog’s name, but not before I screamed, in this order, “Holy shit!” and “NO!,” which, probably due to my excessively shrieky tenor, finally scared the dog off.

All this isn’t to say that I dislike dogs. I like dogs. As I child, I didn’t. They were slobbery, drooly, smelly, lickity. Of course, dogs are still all those things, but it turns out that I don’t mind so much anymore—that is, when they’re not chasing me. I like dogs! I like tail-wagging, smiley, lickity dogs!

And that’s a good thing, because come Monday, I’ll have one.

Yes, I will have a dog. A dog to add to my menagerie of animals, which really just includes Kovick the cat. The dog is a yellow Labrador Retriever from the Phoenix Animal Rescue Center. The tax-deductable donation Dano and I are making to get our claws on this fluffy ball of neutered, microchipped cuteness will go toward medical and surgical care for rescued animals from the Phoenix pound euthanasia list. In return, we’ll get an adorable, two-month-old pup who will probably poop on our floor. Repeatedly.

I can’t wait!