Four years ago yesterday, I (with a little coaxing), adopted a skinny, dirty, zit-faced boxer dog from the Orange County Pound named "Mo." I don't really know how old he was. Somewhere between one and three years. He was brindle, flashy, lean, maybe 50 pounds or so, with huge copper eyes and a melancholy expression.

When we took him out of his cage, he walked calmly next to his handler to the visitation room. He did a quick nasal recon of the room, walked over to me, leaned on my leg, put a paw in my lap, and looked me in the eye.

And I had found my dog.

Since then, he's been my shadow and partner and accompanied me to Texas, Utah, Arizona, and all over California. He's been smuggled into parks and apartments and even a restaurant or two, and only looks at me sadly when I'm putting on the big boy clothes and he knows he'll be stuck at home. Personally, I wish I could bring him. I think he's probably a better closer than me anyhow.

Sure, he isn't quite as athletic and his face is turning silver and he is stinking me out of my office right now. He got expelled from day care for violating the three strikes rule, and he does occasionally like to enjoy a savory pile of poop on a camping trip, but he is, still, the best decision I have ever made. And my very best friend.

So very glad I found you Josh. So very glad indeed.