A few months ago, my daughter started telling everyone that we were getting a second dog. Even though we weren’t.

But she told friends, teachers, waitresses.

I kept telling her that she doesn’t get to decide. Especially when I’m not even sure I want the dog we already have.

She told so many people, eventually they started asking me when we were getting the second dog. She truly believed that if she said it as if it were true, eventually it would be true. I laughed and told her that’s not how it works. You can’t just change reality by saying it.

Guess what? I was wrong. We are getting a second dog.

I guess you can change reality with magic words. It works for David Copperfield and my daughter.

Her words caught me in a moment of weakness. A momentary lapse when suddenly my heart warmed to the possibility of a new hairy creature in our life.

What was I thinking?

I was never a dog person. And I’ve never really been a cat person. Sometimes I’m not even sure I’m a people person.

We got our first dog, Harpo, early in our marriage, because I knew I needed to care for another living being before giving birth to my own little offspring. We’d already failed miserably at the fish thing when the frog we bought to put in the fish tank ate all the fish.

This didn’t bode well for our future progeny. We needed to up the ante to caring for a mammal.

My husband is a dog person. He is such a dog person that, as a child, he endured years of weekly allergy shots so he could live with the beloved family dog, Sally the beagle.

They got Sally when his mother was diagnosed with cancer, to comfort her and as a companion for my husband. They loved that dog so much, they called her a Sherman “sibling.” It was because of Sally that his complete and total madness—I mean love—for dogs was set.

You see, to the Sherman family, dogs are people. On the same day my actual great-nephew Jace was being born on my side of the family, we got a text from his side of family announcing the arrival of my grand-niece, Nola. Not Nola the person. Nola the dog.

So we were careful to help our own dog, Harpo, transition to being a good “sibling” when we brought our children home from the hospital. He handled it just fine. Good boy, Harpo.

When Harpo passed away, too soon, I knew my family needed another animal. Which is how I found myself driving to New Jersey in a huge snowstorm one day in 2003 to bring our new bichon frisé, Curley, home to my husband and kids.

Curley provides complete joy to my family and lots of frustration to me. Instead of the saying, “When Mommy’s not happy, nobody’s happy,” we substitute the name “Curley.” Mommy is not happy about this.

She’s almost 13 now, and she still runs around like a puppy. But like other older women I know (i.e., my mother), she’s selectively hard of hearing. And she is clearly in charge, growling at us when we don’t follow her commands and cuddling with us when she’s ready.

Still, my family adores her and even fights over who gets to sleep with her. My son shed no tears when he left for college and said goodbye to us, his parents. But I am certain I saw a tear coming down his cheek when he said goodbye to Curley.

So when my daughter, who is off to college in a year, started her campaign for a second dog, I wondered why she’d want to have another dog she’d have to leave behind soon. I told her all the reasons we were not getting a second dog. First and foremost, who was going to take care of this dog when she left? And what about Curley? Bringing in another female bichon felt like a betrayal. Like moving the second wife in before the first wife has left the building. (And if we allowed this, who’s to say it couldn’t happen to me next?).

But then, all around us, friends and family started losing their dogs to cancer or old age. It seemed like the whole world was mourning the loss of their beloved companions. This made my kids even more concerned about our octogenarian dog, despite her youthful demeanor.

Next my husband joined the campaign. “If you loved me,” he said, “you’d let us get another dog.” As our daughter is about to depart for college, he thinks the second dog will fill the space in his heart left gaping at the departure of his little girl.

I felt the tug. So when it was time for Curley’s annual checkup in the spring, I asked our veterinarian for some advice. She suggested we get a male dog so Queen Curley could still reign supreme. She also said we needed a docile breed to handle her “attitude.” Our vet suggested a Havanese—a cousin of the bichon, by way of Cuba. (Couldn’t I just get him a Cuban cigar for Father’s Day?)

She gave me the name of a local breeder, and I put it in my bag and didn’t tell anyone I was carrying her name around with me. I didn’t call. But I also didn’t throw it away.

As Father’s Day approached, my husband stepped up the campaign. He pointed out how wonderful he is, puffing out his chest whenever he did laundry or “helped” around the house—as if he should be rewarded for his good behavior with the gift of a new puppy.

But as I waited in the airport to return from a long work trip, feeling tired and guilty for being away, I found that phone number in my purse and decided to dial. The breeder was incredibly informative but told me, unfortunately, she wouldn’t have any puppies until February.

For a moment I thought this was my out. Except, she said a fellow breeder happened to have a few male puppies. She gave me the number. The plane was delayed. What was I to do but call?

Breeder two had one male puppy Havanese left. What were the odds? With two days to go until Father’s Day, I arranged to meet the puppy. The breeder, who lived about two hours away, was going to be in Batavia at the Richmond Memorial Library the day before Father’s Day.

And that’s when I knew this dog was going to be ours. My father and grandfather, who were on my mind as Father’s Day approached, had both practiced medicine at the original Richmond Memorial Hospital on Staten Island. I don’t believe in signs—unless they’re hitting me in the head.

My kids and I decided to surprise my husband by somehow getting him to go to Batavia on a Saturday in June instead of doing what he’d normally want to do: nothing. My son came up with the idea of pretending we wanted to eat at Red Osier. My husband complained, but red meat and being with his son were two lures big enough to reel him in.

As we pulled into the library, my husband looked around for Red Osier. In that moment, he somehow knew what was happening. He said, “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me.”

He’s so right. It is the nicest thing. Especially since it’s not something that I want at all. I had a friend who wrote to me in shock. “What did you do? You were almost done!”

Yes we were. And now there will be sleepless nights, chewed up shoes, and little accidents all over again.

But something happened when I held little Moe, and that tiny fur ball licked my face. I had a moment of what I suppose you’d call pure joy.

Plus, since it’s the nicest thing I’ve done for my family in a long time, I’ll have leverage over the household—until Curley, the real top dog, puts me in my place again.

As first published in the Democrat + Chronicle and on the USA Today Network