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I picked out Howard from the Humane Society in 2019. I woke up one morning determined, naive, and lonely. Not that I hadn’t been thinking about it. I didn’t know what unconditional love felt like, I thought. I knew. I knew I didn’t. I was a cat person. I don’t know what they feel except contempt for my furniture.

Howard cowered in the corner of his pen. What had he been through? My goodness. Some crazy husky (that’s redundant) was howling and generally making a ruckus on the other side of Howard’s wall. I’m not sure he noticed or heard; he just watched me slink into his little room, sideways, as stuck to the wall as he was, ready to toss out a half a Milk Bone.

I gave him his space. He looked at me expectantly. As scared as he might’ve been, genuinely, he also knew the bone game and was game to play it.

I tossed out another chunk of bone, this time a little closer to me. He took it. He looked again at the floor. I’ll come a little closer if…you know…I know you know.

And he did.

Within another toss or two he would take the treats from my hand, tolerate a little petting under his chin. I knew this dog. I knew this person.

I chose to do some due diligence, though. I make a lot of decisions I later regret because I don’t spend enough time testing, thinking through scenarios. I always have the wrong tennis shoes, purchased after mere seconds of feeling so right. “They should feel like an extension of your foot.” OK, Mr. Running Store Expert. Whatever.

I met another dog, this one much less shy. And by much less shy I mean in my shirt, his long ears hearing my heart say no. I kept on with him though. Due diligence. Just in case. Maybe I wanted UNCONDITIONAL LOVE! rather than unconditional love.

I didn’t. I still think about that little guy, who was adopted the instant I left his pen, and know he is just fine and probably has his own butler. But I was drawn to Howard. His name was Max then, a real oddity considering his demeanor. It didn’t matter to me. He needed a friend. Bad. Coincidentally, so did I.

He needed kindness. He needed calm. He needed understanding. He needed a little bit play, not too much, but just enough. He needed all the things I needed and, feeling that so keenly, I was determined to give everything to him and to me.

Eventually, it became clear I couldn’t be his everything. He looked sad to me a lot. I might be projecting that. I tried play therapy because he just seemed a little closed; we made a little progress together, just enough to know that he needed me, he needed rawhide bones, and he needed his own canine buddy. His own therapy dog.

We get so much from our pets. So much. So much so that I can never repay it, even when I came home with Howard’s new buddy Ralph, now snoring comfortably — I hope — one day after TPLO surgery. I know I can’t repay it. I’m not enough.

Howard himself remains a little neurotic, stuck now in a cone of shame because he will lick patches of his skin raw. His next check-up is in a week, when we’ll talk about maybe a little something to calm that compulsion. I pick my cuticles. Maybe we can share, my Howard, so brave yet so not. My best friend. My hero.