Maybe he doesn’t speak English, my son observed roughly three weeks ago, just after we invited one smallish hound (think mid-sized two-door sedan) into our family. Get over here, please, stat, I beseeched him, and thankfully he and his BFF complied, driving the five hours from Asheville and arriving on a Sunday night. They spent several comical hours trying to address the dog in various languages using Google translate, just in case one seemed to resonate, but no luck. That Monday morning was supposed to be our Scout-the-Goldapeake-Retriever’s checkup for a concerning growth on his leg, and Monday afternoon, my annual retina workup—my least favorite day on the calendar.

Because the dog adoption process unfolds at a glacial pace (I swear it is more burdensome than adopting a human child, and I have done that, too), the timing of all of it was just plain unfortunate. Call it a perfect storm. A skittish new dog, an ailing older one, a spouse who had to work on Monday, and just me here, to try to figure it all out. At least I’d scheduled the day off.

The older dog has put on weight, a consequence of no longer running with me. It is too damned hot, and he is too damned arthritic. That is it in a nutshell. As another consequence of the arthritis and added weight, he can no longer bound effortlessly into the backseat of the car, where his seatbelt contraption is rigged up, and where he is accustomed to riding. We bought a ramp, which works only marginally. We practiced with the thing flat and using treats as lure, per the instructions. He will use the ramp if you push his ass up it. Also, it does not quite articulate with the side of the car—it’s really made to load a dog into the cargo area of an SUV. Scout does not ride nor has he ever ridden in the cargo area. So this added another layer of complexity to what was shaping up to be a challenging day.

The plan was, my kid would arrive with his pal and they would essentially sit with New Dog while I schlepped Old Dog to the vet, because the new one had already proved he’d be a troublemaker and was not yet crate trained. I pulled the car out of the garage and cut off the engine early Monday morning, and then set up the ramp. Inside the house, I harnessed up Scout and then away we went to load up. With a bit of encouragement and help from my kid, we got him situated in the back and then I said, see you soon, and prepared to launch.

Only now the car wouldn’t start.

Did I say challenging day? Shitty, is what I meant. Back inside the house, I found my son scrolling at the kitchen table and said, C’mon, we’re taking your car. He laughed and downplayed the problem, which actually made me feel better, jammed his feet into his flip-flops, and off we went.

Suffice it to say, the day started rough and got worse. Yep, Scout needed surgery to remove a stalactite from his leg and it would cost a fortune. And nope, my retina appointment did not go as well as I’d hoped. None of this was insurmountable. Just disappointing. So funny, I observed to my son while I rode shotgun with him later that afternoon, that the planets seemed to align just so, in a way that you could come over exactly when I needed you to.

Apparently, he agreed, and giggled. His giggle is still as endearing and infectious as it was the first time I heard it more than three decades ago.

Now he has gone back home and we are three weeks into this chapter. New Dog—Henry—Hank, is what he becomes, betcha—is learning the house rules. Maybe this will work. I’ve tried not to become fully attached, knowing it might not.

We meant to introduce a new dog into our household whom Scout would dig in the twilight of his life. A calm dog who’d be a nice companion animal. It was a selfish human quest, too. I’ve done the math and realize I’ll probably find myself (ourselves) dogless on the near horizon. Scout turns 13 in November, and it is he and I who occupy the space within these four walls for most of our waking hours during the week, while David is off baking bread and yummy pastries, interacting with other human beings in three dimensions. On the occasional day-off Tuesday when David takes Scout for his once-in-a-while spa treatment, the silence in our house is deafening. So I wanted to find a way to fill the void before it exists, kind of thing.

Turns out Henry is not a calm companion dog, not the dog represented on his slick, marketed dog shelter web page. It’s abundantly clear to us he’s never lived in a home. He has, however, spent an entire year living in a shelter, a thing we knew and shrugged off but have now come to understand is meaningful and not necessarily okay. His age was represented as five years, four months. His age, however, is anybody’s guess, confirmed our veterinarian a week ago at Henry’s first bumper-to-bumper. Once the permanent teeth erupt, she said, it’s impossible to know precisely. You can make an educated guess based on dental wear, kind of thing.

This high-energy hound (maybe a small American Foxhound, maybe a Serbian Tri-Color Hound, who knows) has zero cognitive vocabulary and an insatiable need to put everything in his mouth. Zoomies are off the charts; furniture is knocked over, the room is left in disarray. He is also a climber, like a cat. He has shown some aggression towards Scout, and put his teeth on us, nothing we can’t handle. It doesn’t impress Scout much. Feeding time is a disaster. One dog lives to eat, the other eats to live, and only scarcely, and their diets are wholly unalike. Henry in fact gave up eating for a solid two days last week, we surmise because we treated him for hookworm and it probably made him feel horrible. He is underweight, though, a thing we’re supposed to be working to correct. At a low point last week, I mixed up a concoction of adult and senior food in equal proportions and plopped it into two roughly identical bowls, set them down on the floor at opposite ends of the room, and said, Eat. Or don’t. I am too worn out to nudge and cajole.

NO! is a word Henry at least understands. His retention is a solid fifteen seconds. Right now, I’m whipping out that tool with much fanfare and often to keep him away from Scout’s post-op sutures, which are impressive. I’m also spending a fair amount of energy keeping Scout off his own sutures, during moments of reprieve from the eCollar. This is hard work and makes all of us cranky.

Henry earned his Danger Dog moniker the first time he explored a dangerous ledge in our house that serves as the ceiling of the laundry room down below, and a pedestal for artwork up on top. During the home inspection, the shelter volunteer wondered aloud if it would be a problem. I quipped, I can’t imagine it would—Scout has never cared about it at all.

It is a problem, however, and has necessitated three rescues thus far, and soon will be off-limits thanks to a ropey concoction of my design and David’s construction. We hope this works, because Henry figured out how to get past the dog gate we bought to keep him downstairs in under a minute.

I’ve had a dog in my life since I was five, and at various points more than one, as many as three. I once considered myself a dog expert but no longer do. Sharing your home with a dog, even practicing obedience training with a dog, does not make you an expert, except perhaps it gives you expertise in your dog or dogs; it does give you experience, but no two are the same. We have a long way to go towards attaining expertise in Henry.

Be patient, our veterinarian urged. (She is an actual expert.) It is plausible this dog started his life in a kennel on the back of a hunting pickup, she guessed. Treat him as if he were a puppy, she suggested, because mentally he is. She went on to say she’s owned nine hounds in her life, and they make “excellent house dogs” in time.

Hope springs eternal. There are moments like this one, when both dogs seem so peaceful and happy. Henry has learned that Scout is a reliable friend during thunderstorms. He has come to see his crates—one upstairs in my office and another downstairs in our bedroom—as his sanctuary, so we got that bit right, and it did not take long. He is by and large an excellent runner, has passable leash skills, and has been going out with me most mornings for roughly three miles, even in the heat. Three miles do not even begin to knock the wind out of his sails, but once he is settled, he is calm enough that I can work and take Zoom calls, and that is critically important. For my part, I’m running now more than I have in the past several years, a good thing to be sure, as long as I don’t get injured.

Someone once said, when we invite dogs into our homes to live as part of our family, we invite them no longer to be dogs. I believe this is truth. I hope Henry will learn relatively quickly that he’s got it made here, truly, if only he can understand what it means to be not-dog. Being Good Dog Hank, in fact, I think, might suit us all just fine.