As mid-March rolled in and Los Angeles prepared for the impending stay-at-home order, I decided to turn off the news and suggested to my husband that we should adopt another dog. This was a topic he had brought up multiple times before, only for me to dismiss it. With our single dog, two cats, two parents, and two small children living in a space smaller than what most would consider manageable, we were stretched thin—like a sponge unable to soak up any more responsibilities.
“I’d love to have another dog when we have more time,” I had said in the past. Suddenly, time was all we had.
Rescue organizations usually advertise their pets with adorable photos and detailed personality descriptions: great on a leash, loves salmon (with lemon, hold the pepper), enjoys watching Tiger King, and has a mild aversion to women with canes. Shelters, however, tend to be much more succinct: you might see just two photos, the animal’s sex, and maybe its weight. One typical post might read: Here’s a dog. It’s a dog. Want it?
At the moment I changed my mind, shelters were closed for visits but open for adoptions. You could browse pictures online, make your payment, and receive a dog through the back door. It became a delightful distraction from the pandemic to scroll through shelter websites, and soon we found a purportedly female, 28-pound, 1-year-old mixed breed (perhaps a Beagle mix?) who appeared to be smiling due to sheer happiness—or maybe the photo was just stretched. Imagining bringing her home left me breathless with anticipation.
Well, excitement can sometimes lead to recklessness.
We brought our new backdoor dog home and named her Daisy. We showed her off to our neighbors from a distance and took pictures, trying to convince our kids that this was the perfect arrival of our second dog, while feelings of doubt crept in like an unwelcome shadow.
From day one, it was evident Daisy was not the dog we had envisioned. She didn’t resemble a Beagle at all. Instead, she was likely a mix of Husky and German Shepherd—a wild, jumping bundle of energy that weighed much more than the claimed 28 pounds.
As we settled into remote work and full-time childcare, Daisy barrelled into our lives without a hint of gratitude. Did she terrorize our laid-back dog with relentless pouncing? Yes. Were our cats now being stalked in their own corners by a dog unfazed by even the sharpest of claws? Absolutely. Had my three-year-old son become Daisy’s favorite chew toy? Well, yes, though it seemed he enjoyed it too.
I walked Daisy daily, fed her meals and treats, and endured near-constant playful nibbles. While her bites did not always feel playful, we’ll label them as such to avoid giving the impression we let our new dog maul our child. She bit when she wanted to play, when she was hungry, frustrated, or when she encountered a moving human or animal.
As the days unfolded, my husband and I pondered our hasty decision, often muttering, “What were we thinking?”—with two extra words lodged between “what” and “were.”
To be honest, we knew.
When I first contacted the shelter, I discovered that Daisy had been returned previously for biting. Her last owner had relinquished her after just eleven days, claiming she lunged at faces, bit people, and was essentially “unmanageable.” Our desperation for a pandemic companion had led us to overlook these red flags, convincing ourselves that she was just a mouthy puppy and that the previous owner was elderly and unable to handle her. After all, she was only 28 pounds—how bad could it really be?
It was bad. Our lives were already stretched to the limit with work, children, and concerns about our elderly parents far away. We had added an uncontrollable dog to our chaotic situation.
A month later, Daisy is still part of our family. We’ve redirected our childcare budget to virtual dog training sessions and implemented a plethora of baby gates, far exceeding what we used for our human kids, to keep everyone safe.
Daisy now bites about 40% less, which is still quite a lot of biting. However, she’s also affectionate, playful, and intelligent, often seeming to try to unlearn her bad habits. I know many wouldn’t have kept her, but I resolutely remain committed to my own personal pandemic project—discovering the wonderful dog hidden within Daisy.
I think through Daisy, I’m learning how unrealistic our expectations can be. Packing up my office on March 11th felt excessive—did I really need my extra monitor for just a month of remote work? Now, I wish I had taken my printer and a full candy stash instead of just a small handful. Back then, we all expected a few weeks of inconvenience.
Recently, my therapist suggested that perhaps Daisy wasn’t the right fit for our lives right now, and that I had a choice I wasn’t acknowledging. She was right—I made the choice to stop seeing that therapist.
I wish there were a voice from the future to assure me this story has a happy conclusion. That in a few years, our animals will coexist in harmony and we can look back, shaking our heads and reminiscing about the chaotic beginning with Daisy. We are all listening closely for that future voice, hoping it will tell us everything is alright now. Remind us that our loved ones will be safe and that even uncontrollable forces can lead us down a path—though nicked and bruised—we can navigate through the darkness.
For more insights on navigating challenges like ours, you can check out this link for additional stories.
Summary
During quarantine, Sarah and her family adopted a challenging dog named Daisy, who turned out to be much different than they expected. Initially overwhelmed by Daisy’s behavior, they navigated the struggles of training and adapting their lives to include her, all while reflecting on their decisions and the challenges of the pandemic.