Family. That word usually makes people smile or cry or post some fake Facebook memory captioned “#blessed.” Me? It just makes me want to scratch my head and pet my dogs. Because honestly, they’re the only ones still showing up for me. My wife’s off-limits—she’s my favorite human and a fiercely private person. My “brother” turned into a political Facebook warrior who apparently thinks disowning me counts as activism. And my kids? Let’s just say they’re so busy they must’ve joined NASA and gone off-planet.

So, what’s left? The three best conversationalists in the house: Jersey, Larkin, and Aldo. Jersey, the St. Bernard, is a gentle queen of drool and snoring who believes every couch was built for her. Larkin, the Belgian Malinois, runs a one-dog security agency and hasn’t taken a day off since birth. And Aldo, the Miniature Pinscher, struts around like he’s the manager of the whole operation—short, loud, and convinced the world revolves around him. They listen without judgment, guard me without fail, and never once asked me who I voted for. That’s family. Not the bloodline kind, but the loyalty-and-barking kind.

If love had fur and bad breath, it’d live in my house.