I am such a dog person; I am surprised I don’t have fur.

My last best friend was a miniature toy poodle named Fifi (because what else would a French Canadian name their poodle?). She was my partner, my alarm clock, my food vacuum cleaner, my toy thief—she was everything to me for nearly seventeen years. I remember the day we brought her home; I rode with my dad in his white 1970’s Ford, polka-dotted with varying degrees of rust, with only his duck hunter camo hat for her to curl into on the 10-mile ride to the place that would be her one and only home. She’s been irreplaceable—and will always remain so, in many respects.

A good friend of mine has recently become the owner (or Doggy Daddy, as he frequently proclaims) to a perky little Jack Russell named Hunter. I am still a poodle girl, no doubt; there are a tons of brains underneath that curly-haired beauty. But the spunk and energy of a Jack Russell is growing on me (or I might make the argument that I have become inoculated against it after being injected from multiple pokes from the needlelike puppy teeth). Even though I have always (and will always) think of poodles as “My Dog,” I find myself having a ton in common with this small terrier: Fearless, friendly, focused, fierce. Take for example the little adventure we found ourselves on this past Saturday; in his new surroundings he strayed not away, but rather charged full-force into the exploration of his new surroundings. He was not afraid; he was not ashamed (not even when he stole my pretty chocolate brown maple leaf I was setting up for a photo…Fifi the Bandit would have been proud). He was taking in the moment, the experience.

If that’s not something to want in a friend—four legged or otherwise—I don’t know what is.