I’ve always loved animals. There’s just something about dogs the wagging tails, the curious eyes, the unfiltered joy that brings me instant happiness. But growing up, I never had one. My parents loved animals too, but my mom had a phobia of fur, so pets were simply not part of our home.
Years later, when my wife and I got married and moved out, the timing still didn’t feel right. We both loved dogs her family had one that we adored like our own whenever we visited but we enjoyed the freedom of our new chapter. We wanted to travel, explore, and our apartment contract had a strict “no pets” policy anyway.
Then Iri came along. Out of nowhere.
Maybe it was the quiet days during COVID, when home started to feel smaller and the outside world more distant. One of our friends was fostering a puppy, and we went to visit just to “help find her a home.” That’s what we said to each other. Iri wasn’t the conventionally cute type a mixed breed of mongrel and strong Shar Pei features: folds, wrinkles, and a slightly confused expression. We were told that no one wanted her because she didn’t “look cute” in photos. But when we met her, none of that mattered. She bounded up with pure energy, tail wagging, showering us in relentless, happy licks.
Something changed in that moment.
We drove home still pretending we were “helping find her a family.” But really, we were already looking up our lease agreement to see if “no pets” could somehow mean “no cats, but maybe one small dog.” Within weeks, we found ourselves packing up kibble, a dog bed, and bringing her home this confused little creature who didn’t yet know we were going to be her forever humans.
People often say children change you, that they shift your priorities and deepen your sense of love. I never truly understood that until we became pawrents. From the moment Iri stepped into our home, everything changed from how we planned weekends to the way we looked forward to coming home. We stopped thinking of plans in terms of “what we want to do” and started thinking, “Can Iri come along?” It wasn’t a loss of freedom; it was a gain in meaning.
We became a team instinctively dividing responsibilities, learning her quirks, laughing at her endless need for food, but also worrying when she didn’t eat. Our home started to feel fuller, warmer. Taking care of her wasn’t just about responsibility; it was about learning empathy, patience, and unconditional love.
Being a pawrent changes you. It softens your edges. You start noticing small things the way she tilts her head when you talk, the rhythm of her paws against the floor when she hears you come home. And every time she runs to the door, tail wagging uncontrollably, you feel a wave of joy that’s hard to put into words.
Yes, there are sacrifices fewer late nights, less spontaneous travel but you gain something far greater. You learn how love grows when you give it, how companionship reshapes your world.
