Six months into being married, I decided we should get another dog. Michael wasn’t totally on board so I did what any rational person would do – I waited until he was gone one night and then started looking on Craigslist (why Craigslist, you ask? I don’t know, it was 2009).

Against all odds, I found an ad for exactly what I wanted – it was a simple ad with the title “Pug” and the asking price of $250.

I immediately emailed the address to ask if said pug was still available and after confirming, I waited until Michael got home and broke the news to him that we needed to go see about a dog. After some reluctance, he begrudgingly agreed – but only to go check the pug out. “We can go see him, but we have to think about this. We’re not going to come home tomorrow night with a dog.”

“Absolutely agree, totally on board,” I lied.

Long story short: we came home the next night with a dog.

He was around two years old, and he was a skinny little boy who needed a new home (hence the Craigslist ad). He was originally named Pookie but that didn’t seem right. We named him Bristow and then almost immediately ignored his given name and called him Bubba. We cuddled him all evening and introduced him to his fur-sister, Molly. After we all went to bed, he had us up every two hours because he kept pooping. It was glorious.

Once he got used to us, Bubba’s personality came out quickly. He loved toys, and he loved Molly, but he loved Michael the most. He would follow his dad around all day, and cuddle with him on the couch at night. Despite Michael’s initial reluctance at the idea of a second dog, he found the reality to be pretty awesome.

We quickly learned that Bubba could be an stubborn jerk. If it was raining, he wouldn’t go outside to relieve himself – instead, he’d do it by the door and expect us to clean it up. We tried so many ways to address the problem and we never really succeeded.

Bubba was an escape artist – we bought an flexible fence that would allow him and Molly access to a small amount of room inside (and unlimited access to the backyard) – the point was to keep him from wandering around rest of the house while we were at work, without having to kennel him all day. He figured out ways to slip through the fence every day. Didn’t matter how many times we rigged it or what we did. He was a master at outsmarting us when he decided to really commit to it.

We called Bubba the DFP. This stood for Dear Fat Pug when he was in our good graces, and Dumb Fucking Pug when he had decided to hold his obstinate ground and pee in front of the door, or climb onto the couch and shed all over it (and oh, could he shed).

Bubba was a master of somehow escaping the backyard and going for walkabouts around the neighborhood. He was an adorable dog who came running up to anyone who approached him, and we quickly learned that the world is inherently a good place because none of the people who found him decided to keep a free purebred (idiotic) dog who would clearly go home with them, no questions asked. They always called the number on his collar and Michael or I would curse the DFP, leave work, and go bring him home.

One time Bubba escaped and we had no idea where he was. We walked up and down the street looking for him. Finally, he must have heard us because the next thing we knew, he was jumping joyfully from the middle of a bush where he had been otherwise occupied. The way it looked, it was like the bush was giving birth to a fat, hairy farting baby that was so excited to see the parents that he had escaped that he immediately took a shit in front of us.

Bubba liked to sing. We had no idea, since he didn’t do it when we were home. But one day, Michael was gone and I was working in our office with the door closed and Bubba thought he was alone. I stopped working when I heard a strange “roww roww rowwwwwwww” from the living room. I got up and walked out to find the DFP standing on the back of the couch, serenading anyone who happened to walk past the window.

When Rebecca was born, Bubba took a shining to her even though she took attention away from him. He would sleep outside her bedroom door and was always gentle with her. The very first time we ever heard her belly-laugh, at four months, it was because she was watching Bubba chase Molly in circles in the backyard. As she grew older, the two of them developed a real bond.

He had been skinny and underfed when he first came home with us, but over the years he definitely earned the Fat part of the DFP. Bubba ate anything and everything and would beg like he hadn’t eaten in a year if he thought he could get away with it. He knew his day had come when Rebecca, and later her brothers, were old enough to sit in high chairs. When they were toddlers, the kids were unwitting accomplices in Bubba’s ascendence from slender to corpulent. He would sit in front of their chairs, yelp ever-so-slightly, and then just wait for chunks of chicken/cheerios/bread/peas/whathaveyou to be rained down.

He snored. Dear god, did the DFP snore. I once took a video of Bubba and Michael both sleeping on the couch, and I honestly couldn’t tell you who was louder. I would tell you that his snoring was the worst, but it’s not true – his farting could wreck a room. Didn’t matter what we fed him, or how bland we made his diet – he was a walking stink bomb.

The sad thing about getting pets all around the same time is that they all get older at the same time and they reach the end all roughly around the same time. In the space of two years, we lost all three of our fur babies. Molly was the oldest, and the first to go. About a year and a half later, our cat Oni followed. Bubba never really got over missing Molly. He very quickly went from an older-yet-functional pup to an elderly, blind, incontinent dog with sundowners syndrome. It felt like it happened overnight. He was still as loving and cuddly (and gassy) as ever, but he wasn’t the same.

One of the hardest decisions we ever had to make was the decision to let Bubba go. With Molly and Oni, their decline was sudden and rapid – it wasn’t really a choice, so much as a necessity to give them peace. With Bubba, his decline was longer and one day we realized he just realized it was time. It was tough, but it was the right call.

Almost three years later, I still miss that fat little man every day. He wasn’t the best dog we’ve ever had (that was Molly). He wasn’t the smartest (unless he was figuring a way out of his pen). He was never going to be a show dog or win any type of medal. But for whatever reason, he was my favorite. Although I don’t miss the shedding.