“Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.”

– Roger Caras

When I was younger, I was obsessed with owning a pug. I loved their silly personalities, curly tails, and smushed faces. I’d never met a pug in real life. I just knew I loved them.

My first pug was named Bubbles, a smart little dog that died way too young, poisoned by chicken jerky treats. (I knew so little about pet foods and treats at the time, not realizing the treats I was buying at the grocery store were slowly poisoning my dog.) After her death, my mom decided she wanted to get a dog and I wanted another pug, too. We found a breeder in Sandy Hook, out in the middle of nowhere, and visited to see if we might find a puppy to love.

My mom got her dog, Pebbles, on that trip. (She passed away a year and a half ago at the age of 13.) The breeder also had a pug named Bubbles and she was nearing her due date. It seemed kismet, so I reserved a puppy. I knew I wanted a boy and I told the breeder I was going to name him Pickles, not after a brined cucumber or a Rugrats character, but in honor of my favorite banjo player.