We were reminded last week, painfully thanks to social media, that we said goodbye to our old corgi two years ago. Seeing Iona’s craggy, yet smiling face on my Facebook and Timehop feeds was both lovingly memorable and deeply painful. Twenty-four months later the hole she left remains unfilled. She was as much a representation of survival (her cancer; my divorce) as she was a constant (albeit bitchy) companion.

Iona was a rescue dog. Like all of our dogs, she came with an unknown history, a seemingly disruptive past, and a litany of critical issues—mistrust, anxiety, weight, and an excusable culpability. She was by far the least of our furry liabilities (that distinction goes to Fuckface), but the fact remained, that after 14 years of unconditional love and luxury, her past would not remain behind. We as her caregivers were always overshadowed by those two years that came before us, by those who had harmed her.

But never a regret. She was mine; I was hers.

Yet when it became time to adopt another dog, we turned not to the numerous shelters. We visited nary a rescue site. We did the unthinkable. We bought a puppy.

There is inarguably great selfishness in this act. Our Oy was artfully created by a breeder. He is of certain color, temperament, and health. He is meant to appeal.

And he does.

Yes, we know that there are millions of shelter dogs in need of a home. Yes, we know he cost more than our couch. Yes, we know very well the loyalty that comes from a rescue. And one will enter our home again. Just not now. For now, there is uncomplication—there is a blue (and soon to be two) corgi whose quirks, neuroses, and bad habits are all ours. He is ours; we are his. No regrets.