Did you see the 1984 movie, The Never Ending Story? I am the star, or rather I am named after the star, Falkor. My masters call me Falkie.They adopted me 5 years ago, in Los Angeles, when I was full-grown. I am low to the ground, with long white hair. I’m a terrible shedder, and likely a dachshund-terrier mix. How cute is that? I reminded my masters of Falkor in one of the greatest movies ever.

My masters loved me—they still do, actually—and after what I had been through, I needed love. It’s probably why I shed so much, but I will spare you the details. Suffice it to say I know the inside of a dog safe house well. My masters put me on a strict schedule, taught me my place in the family, and rewarded my good performance in their behavior modification program. I deserved all the treats they gave me. I learned to wait inside the house until they were out. Then they said, “That will do,” and I knew it was my turn to cross the threshold. I learned to wait until they ate before I ate. I am no alpha dog; it’s the security of the pack I want. I’ve longed for a pack most of my life. The only thing I have had trouble learning is to stop asking for petting. Do you like petting? If you bump someone’s forearm with your nose enough times, they will pet you. It’s so reassuring.

We went on walks twice a day, and on weekends, long hikes in the little, steep, usually dry mountains around Los Angeles. We went to very high mountains. I smelled a million new smells and found a few things to taste. I slept in the tent with my masters. At home, I sleep in my bed on the floor of my masters’ bedroom. It used to be just the three of us.

Then the baby came. I felt they adopted me only to practice on me; practice how to be responsible for another being. That bright rectangle—too bright for me—probably told them to do it. The baby is pretty amazing. I’ll never be able to compete with him. My masters are so busy there’s no time for walks, unless the baby comes too. They let me out in the backyard, instead, but I can’t get under the fence to see what smells so good on the other side. The man master buried wire under the dirt to stop that.

My woman master actually feeds the baby from her body. I can’t see what’s going on, but it stirs a very old memory of never getting enough. The baby gets enough. I had to learn to sleep when the baby cries. My masters carry him around and bounce him up and down all day long. They pretend he is an airplane and fly him around. And, although I am named after a flying dragon, I never get to do that. The baby just wants to cry. I wish I could tell them to pet him. The baby doesn’t know how to bump their arm over and over the way I ask for petting.

Sometimes they are so tired from the baby they forget to feed me. They also forget to sweep the food room floor, so I find some things I like there to hold off hunger. Then I sit in front of the doors under the place I hear water. That’s where the big bag of my food is, with the portion measurer. My masters look at each other and ask, “Did you feed Falkie?” Finally, I eat.

I am still allowed to sit on the white couch. Remember, I am white and a terrible shedder, so I am shooed off the brown couch every time I jump up on it. My hair is not so visible on the white couch, but when people sit there my hair gets all over them. My white hairs make their clothes look old.

When we all sit together on the white couch, the baby is always next to my masters, and I can curl up next to the baby. That’s when it’s like old times again—the pack united in snuggle.

My greatest fear now is that the baby will become allergic to my hair, and then what might happen to me? I know that, as much as they love me, I would probably have to go, or maybe get shaved. I suppose I could endure that; sounds chilly. I wish I could use the bright screen to find out how to stop a baby from becoming allergic. I do worry about this, but I still sleep well, about 16 hours a day.

Maybe the baby will learn to play with me, not get allergic, and everything will be good. Until, I suppose, there will be another baby. I hope I can rise to the occasion.