My dear friend has a Maltipoo named Posey, and I loved spending time with her.
She’s the kind of dog that just quietly exists next to you — calm, gentle, perfectly content doing absolutely nothing. She doesn’t demand attention, she doesn’t bounce off the walls, she doesn’t even seem particularly interested in chaos.
She just… observes.
There’s something very composed about her, like she has her life together in a way I don’t. You can sit next to her for an hour and feel like you’ve both accomplished something, even though neither of you moved.
Watching her felt almost therapeutic. Like, this is what having a dog could be like — peaceful, low-maintenance, emotionally supportive without being overwhelming.
And naturally, I thought:
Yeah, I could do this.
Now, I’ve always loved dogs — especially German Shepherds. My family had two when I was growing up in Vietnam, and in my mind, that was the standard: smart, loyal, a little intense, but in a respectable way.
But then reality stepped in.
Living in a Chicago studio apartment on a high floor isn’t exactly ideal for a German Shepherd. That’s less “giving a dog a good life” and more “starting a long-term negotiation with both the dog and your downstairs neighbors.”
My second choice was a Border Collie, which — okay, I admit — was worse. Getting a Border Collie in a studio apartment feels like I’d be constantly apologizing to it.
So I adjusted my expectations.
And like any responsible adult making a major life decision in 2026, I opened ChatGPT.
That’s when I found the Miniature American Shepherd. Smaller. More manageable. Still smart, still energetic — but theoretically (at least according to me) compatible with city life. It felt like a reasonable compromise between what I wanted and what my living situation could handle. From that point on, I went into full research mode. Multiple tabs open. Comparing listings. Zooming in on photos like I was evaluating property. Reading descriptions carefully, trying to figure out personality from a few sentences – and sometimes, slightly blurry pictures.
And then I found him -a little fella named Remy – and I thought, “yeah… this might be the one.”
From there, everything moved quickly – in that slightly reckless way where you know you should slow down, but you don’t.
The pickup was set for October 25th, early in the morning, because the previous owner’s daughter had a basketball game in Mackinaw, Illinois. Mind you, I live in Chicago, so Mackinaw meant a 1.5-hour drive.
They also offered for me to pick him up from their home… which was 2.5 hours away.
So it was simple math.
I’ll take 1.5.
It wasn’t some big sign from the universe — just slightly better logistics, which, at the time, felt like enough.
The night before, I barely slept.
My brain kept circling the same thoughts:
Am I ready for this?
Is this actually happening?
What if this is somehow a scam and I show up to an empty parking lot?
Or, dude, worse – what if I showed up to that parking lot and got jumped?
At some point, my body decided to cooperate by escalating things and breaking out in hives. So there I was at 4 a.m., wide awake, itchy, DoorDashing Claritin… and chocolate milk, because I needed to hit the $25 minimum for free delivery – which, in hindsight, felt like a very accurate reflection of my decision-making process.
The Claritin helped. I got maybe another 30 minutes of sleep before my alarm went off at 5 a.m. No turning back at that point.
And I’ll be honest – I don’t remember much of the 1.5-hour trip. I remember getting into the Uber. I remember getting out. Everything in between is just… gone.
But the moment I walked up to the owner’s car, everything snapped back into focus.
It suddenly felt very real.
She greeted me, brought the puppy out, and gently placed him on the ground.
Now, there were two things that went through my mind. First, thank the almighty one that this was not a scam and I didn’t travel 1.5 hours for something I didn’t sign up for. And second, right after that, there was this brief moment where everything just… slowed down.
Like, wow. This is happening.
She handed me a small bag of food, some potty pads, and his favorite blanket. Then she told him to be “good,” wished me luck – and just like that, he was mine.
No transition period. No adjustment phase. Just new responsibility. I had read all the stories – the sleepless nights, the whining, the instant regret, so I did brace myself.
In that moment though, it was just me and this tiny, slightly confused puppy, standing there together at the beginning of something neither of us fully understood yet.
But there was something certain: this dude was born to be rebellious – I wanted to take a picture of him and couldn’t snap anything properly, and he was chewing on the leash while I was calling for Uber. Dude couldn’t stay still for more than three seconds.
Surprisingly, in the drive back, he was quiet.
He sat stiffly at first, clearly unsure about everything – the car, me, his situation. I kept glancing over at him, like I was trying to reassure him without actually saying anything.
About 15 minutes in, something shifted. He slowly climbed into my lap, curled up, and fell asleep.
And that was it. That was the moment everything clicked. My heart melted instantly. My arm, on the other hand, slowly went numb – but I didn’t move because I didn’t want to wake him up. It didn’t feel negotiable.
At some point during the drive, I DoorDashed again…which was when I realized this might be becoming a pattern. Nevertheless, I ordered all the essentials – crate, toys, bowls, treats, food containers. Basically anything that made me feel like I had some level of control over what I had just committed to.
Whether or not I actually did…remained to be seen.
When we got back to Chicago, I didn’t know what to him I took him met Posey. Posey, as always, was completely calm. She approached slowly, observed him, and seemed to process the situation with a level of composure that felt almost intentional – like she was gathering information before forming an opinion. My pup, meanwhile, stood there like everything in his life had just changed – which, to be fair, it had. He didn’t know what to do with her energy. Or rather, her lack of it. One of them clearly understood what was going on.
It was not him. And it was definitely not me.
On the way up to my apartment, I realized something else.
I didn’t even have a name for him yet.
I had been going back and forth the entire time – which, in hindsight, feels like something I probably should’ve figured out earlier. (Note to future self: maybe decide your kid’s name before having one.)
I had a shortlist – names that were cute, easy to say, and meant something to me.
At one point, I considered Kira, because I love the manga Akira. That idea lasted about a minute. He didn’t respond to it at all.
Then there was Michi, inspired by Hanamichi from Slam Dunk, a character I find a little too relatable.
But before I even got to that, I called him Ryo (Ree-oh).
Partly because of Ryota, the point guard from Slam Dunk. Partly because my girlfriend said he looked like an Oreo – so Ryo was the short-hand version of that.
He responded, so Ryo it was. After the name fiasco, he slept peacefully.
Now the really challenge was going to that first night. I had prepared. I tried to make his crate as comfortable as possible – added the blanket from his previous home and covered it with a bedsheet to make it feel more enclosed. The internet says not to do that. But emotionally, I needed to feel like I was doing something right. And to be fair, I didn’t completely ignore advice – I did use a divider to make the crate smaller, since apparently that helps them feel more secure and avoid accidents.
Everyone says the first night is brutal – crying, whining, no sleep, questioning your life choices.
But Ryo…
He whimpered for maybe five minutes in his crate. That was it.
Meanwhile, I was sitting right in front of it, whispering encouragement like I was helping him through something deeply emotional.
Around 2 a.m., he woke me up, ran straight to his potty pad, handled everything perfectly, and went back to sleep.
I just sat there for a moment, slightly confused.
Was that it?
He slept until 7 a.m. after that.
Which felt… suspicious. Maybe I lucked out with this fella? Or at the minimum, looking back, he handled the first night like a champ.
Bringing Ryo home was one of those impulsive decisions that, somehow, turns out to be exactly what I needed.
He’s smart, stubborn, endlessly curious, and occasionally an absolute menace.
Posey is calm. Composed. At peace. Ryo is… not that.
And I exist somewhere in between, trying to keep up.
I don’t know what comes next.
But I do know this: Life is definitely no longer quiet. And honestly, I think that’s the point.