Birthdays and Christmases went by, and there was only one thing on my list: A dog.

Doesn’t matter what breed. Doesn’t matter whether it’s a puppy or an old pile of fluff. All I wanted was a dog, and every year I’d get anything but. You can’t cuddle an Easy Bake Oven. I mean, you can with enough determination and a haircut you wouldn’t mind half sizzled off.

No, I wanted something that could cuddle me back, and I was determined.

I could never understand why my dad was so set on denying me the only thing that could bring me true happiness. I’d confront him constantly about it and the best explanation he could muster was, “I don’t hate dogs!” Um, OK. Maybe it wasn’t an explanation at all. To this day, my dad’s strained relationship with the purest creatures on earth remains a mystery.

Then my mom finally stepped in my freshman year of community college. Pretty disappointing that it took her this long but hey, I’ll take it.

It was early December and my dad was working on some project in the yard he’d eventually abandon. Not important. My mom whispered my name from the office and motioned for me to set my gaze on a desktop covered in adorable canines. She explained to me that PAWS was an animal shelter in Lynnwood that fostered out animals when they were sick or in need of some alone time away from the other pets-in-waiting.

It only took a week before a half-chihuahua, half-Pomeranian would sit jittering its way home on my lap. We were told he had kennel-cough, which is the dog version of a cold that spreads quickly when dogs live in close proximity. His name was Rocky. Much too masculine for this wimpy blonde pup. I decided to give him a new name, which you’re totally not supposed to do, but come on. Rocky? Princess would be more fitting.

We didn’t dare ask my dad if it was OK for us to begin fostering, so we would have to surprise him when he came home from work. He was already in a bad mood (“only *blank* years until retirement” is his catchphrase), so when he set down his laptop on the counter, he let out a hesitant, “Oh, who’s this?”

“This is Rocky, and we’re fostering him for a couple weeks. Since you never let me have a dog, this is our compromise,” I said smugly. Ah, revenge is sweet.

“You know a compromise is when both people agree, right?”

“...Yeah, but we knew you’d say no…”

He was livid. I was pleased.

“Michele!!!” He called for my mom, and for once, he actually let her win the argument. Mostly because he didn’t have a choice.

I was in love with this dog the second he stopped shaking and fell asleep on my lap while watching "Parks and Recreation." It only took him a week to warm up to his new name, Skippy, which came to me after noticing the slight limp when he ran. It also only took him a week for us to become best friends. And a week for him to tear up half the bras I own and pee at least once in every room of the house. If we were ever going to foster again, my mom and I had to keep this on the down-low.

I would chase Skippy down as he would growl and snap at me until I could practically smother him with a blanket. Then I’d discretely make my way downstairs, shove him out the back door and whisper “bad dog” just out of earshot from my dad, who remained oblivious to the fact that Skippy was a total asshole.

The second I caved and let the scoundrel back in again, we’d quickly bounce back to being the best of friends. I was like those dogs who always find their way back home despite their jerk owners abandoning them purposefully in a mountain hundreds of miles away. (Yes, I was the dog in this relationship.)

It didn’t matter how many times I’d inspect the backyard fence, Skippy would always find a way to escape and take an afternoon (sometimes 2 a.m.) stroll around the neighborhood and I’d have to sprint through my neighbors' yards in hopes I wouldn’t be, I don’t know, SHOT?

Those two weeks flew by and I swear I only left the house to take Skippy on walks because I wanted to relish every second I had as a dog parent. (OK, foster parent, but whatever.)

It was a cloudy, wet evening when we had to take Skippy back to PAWS. I’ll admit it: I cried. I was an 18-year-old college student and I’d already become emotionally attached to this total piece of shit who dares to call himself “man’s best friend.”

My dad remained the opposite of emotionally attached.

Dog deprivation is a thing and it screws people up.

A month went by and I couldn’t remember what life was like before I force-cuddled that ball of fluff as I fell asleep. Then my mom got a call from PAWS who said Skippy had kennel-cough again and was in need of a foster parent. What a brilliant little faker!

I volunteered to pick him up straight away. My boyfriend and I raced through the back door behind the reception desk before giving anyone so much as a “hello,” and then I saw him. He sat quivering madly in the dark corner of his cage. My heart sunk. The lady following us explained that Skippy had been abused and neglected by his original owner, who was a drug addict, and that’s why he suffered such extreme personality changes.

And I abandoned him.

I inched forward toward his cage. Softly, I said his name and his puffy triangle ears flinched in my direction. Then he went nuts. Tail wagging insanely and leaping around so violently he forgot how to land.

The employees said they’d never seen a dog so excited to see someone before.