I took this photo on March 28, 2015. Three days after I had found him in a trash can outside my apartment in San Antonio, Texas. We’ve fudged the date a little every year, so we’re celebrating Milo’s tenth birthday today. Ten years. It seems so long but feels so short. The baby of the family, Milo has never tried - nor wanted to - grow up. He has all of the worst traits of a pug and a poodle rolled into one huffing, puffing, and licking ball of wiry fur and crooked teeth. He shares a pillow with me every night. He thinks he’s very tough. He has big emotions and feels them all at once. He loves totally, completely, and resolutely to the point of stubbornness. He takes after his dad. I wrote the following in an old diary entry after I got him - when I used to do that sort of thing - about how Milo helped me, in his own way, feel settled and loved in an uncertain time in my own life. I have always said that I was meant to have Milo - God knows why - and have always loved him, quite selfishly, more for that than anything else. Cheers to Milo, who rounded out the family and has made us laugh every day since. “I didn’t want permanency to this place, my little apartment in Texas. I wanted to be able to drop it all and leave, burn it if I had to. Use the dumpster behind a 7-Eleven and drive fast if I had to. Now I’m looking for a dog sitter who can take this small thing in while I’m in California next week. Now I’m waking up an hour early and walking him in small athletic shorts that belonged to my sister and a cardigan two sizes too big. Milo. His permanency is in question, but his presence is appreciated. Even the small scratches on the door while I’m taking a bath, the heavy snores when I wake up from a bad dream, the loose puppy tooth that I find bloody on the white sheets—they’re all signs of the beautiful. living world that I’ve shut myself away from for more months (years?) than I care to remember.” Happy birthday, baby. I love you so much.