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Good morning. I don't think I can even begin to relate just how terrifying this is, so here's what I'm gonna do instead; I'll mumble, speak much too quickly, avoid all eye contact, and use overly-dramatic hand gestures. And since it's too early in the morning and school year to picture any of you naked, this'll have to do.

In my lifetime, my family has owned and sheltered over one hundred and fifty dogs, cats, horses, goats, sheep, and various other species. My residence has acted as both a foster home and a rehab center for any animal we could make room for. Most stay with us permanently, but we haven't been lucky enough to help every animal we've come across. But the bliss of the successful adoptions greatly overshadows the disappointment of those unsuccessful.

It really all began with my mother. Having grown up in a city, she didn't have the luxury of pets until she had a house of her own. She soon made up for all the animals she didn't have as child - three times over. She taught my siblings, myself, and even my father to respect and adore our fellow mammals. But even she has her favorites, and so we've owned more dogs than anything else. Her absolute favorite, (and everybody else's), was Breda. Breda, (who was, incidentally, named after a mispronunciation of a German town), was a German Shepard/ keeshond mix, and the first dog my parents adopted when they moved into their first house back in 1978. It was three years before Breda gave justice to her breed, fiercely guarding, or sheparding, if you will, my newborn sister as if it were her own. Her most incredible feat involved my little brother, Myles. Since both my parents work full-time, my sister, brother, and I were juggled among multiple babysitters. The one who was watching us when Myles was just under two years old made the horrendous mistake of staying on the phone long enough for him to toddle quite a few miles away from the house, down long, winding roads,...