As my kids got older and moved out, I did what any reasonable parent would do—I bought a dog. Not to replace them (obviously, they are irreplaceable and also significantly taller), but to bring a little comfort, and someone who still thinks I’m the center of the universe.

When Noah left for St. Olaf College, I made it through freshman year just fine. But sophomore year? Apparently that was my breaking point. Enter: a tiny Bichon Frise–Poodle mix who looks exactly like every other small white dog that barks like it pays rent.

I FaceTimed Noah and told him he could name the dog. He chose “Liam.” I still don’t know why. It sounds like the name of someone who files taxes early and owns a briefcase.

Liam is my dog. Twelve pounds of absolute loyalty and mild aggression. He follows me everywhere, stares at me like I hung the moon, and positions himself between me and my husband like a fluffy, judgmental security system. Honestly, if danger ever came, I’m confident Liam would defend me… or at least bark heroically while I handled it. What a hound.

Next, when it was time for my next son to leave the nest, we coped in a very measured, emotionally healthy way—we went shopping for another dog. Naturally. We called ahead to a little dog place in the western suburbs and very confidently requested to see all the goldendoodles, as if we were selecting fine art.

As Jake surveyed the puppies, one of them just kept following him. Everywhere. Like a tiny, fluffy stalker with excellent instincts. The owner finally said, “I don’t think you need to pick one… this puppy has already picked you.” Which, honestly, felt both magical and slightly manipulative.

Jake was thrilled. I mean, chosen. That’s peak life moment right there.

So we scooped up this 10-week-old puppy with legs that seemed about three sizes too long for his body—like a baby deer trying to figure out gravity—and brought him home. Jake named him “Archer,” apparently after a cartoon character, which I chose not to question because I was too busy tripping over his limbs and wondering how something so awkward could also be so adorable.

Archer is now a solid 50 pounds, which means he has officially graduated from “adorable puppy” to “could absolutely pull me down the street if he sees a squirrel.” Walking him is less of a stroll and more of a trust exercise. He’s a little wild—very much like my son Jake—and operates with the same joyful chaos and selective listening skills.

He loves toys, but not in the destructive, rip-them-to-shreds way. No, Archer is a collector. A curator, if you will. He gently carries toys from room to room like he’s setting up tiny exhibits no one asked for. You’ll find them in shoes, on pillows, occasionally in places that make no sense at all. It’s like living with a very enthusiastic, slightly confused interior designer.

Today he’s going to the groomer, which used to be an event. Before we found “Tails of Persia” with Hamisha, Archer was, let’s say, not his best self. There was drama. There were strong opinions. There may have been attempts at interpretive dance to avoid the situation. He was officially kicked out from four other places. He was a sweet dog – never bit anyone – but never allowed back.

But now? Total transformation. Calm(ish), cooperative(ish), and significantly less theatrical. If you have a nervous or anxious pup, I cannot recommend them enough. Truly, it’s been life-changing—for Archer, for the groomer, and definitely for me.

Here are five very honest and slightly ridiculous reasons I love grooming day:

1. Temporary Amnesia About Chaos: For a few glorious hours, there is no jingling collar, no surprise zoomies, and no mysterious toy appearing under my foot at 6am. It’s like my house forgets it owns this dog.
2. He Comes Back Looking Like a Respectable Citizen: Before: woodland creature. After: distinguished gentleman who looks like he pays taxes and volunteers on weekends.
3. That Fresh Groomer Smell: I don’t know what magic they use, but it’s not available to the general public. He smells like a lavender field that went to finishing school.
4. No Judgmental Staring While I Eat: There’s something deeply freeing about eating a snack without a 50-pound fluff silently questioning your choices.
5. The Reunion Is Oscar-Worthy: When he comes home, you’d think we’d been separated for years. The excitement. The drama. The full-body wiggle. Honestly, it’s nice to feel that loved for simply existing.

Yeah. Love. That’s about right.