Thirteen years ago today, Ramón and I brought this magical creature home. We had already picked her name, Noodle, because I wanted it to pair nicely with Ramón’s French Bulldog, Alfie—short for Alfredo. We considered every pasta type we could think of, ultimately landed on Noodle. Ziti was a close second, but I’m glad we chose Noodle. It suits her.

My friend and coworker, Ileana, was fostering her and had been wearing me down one dog photo at a time. I had wanted a dog since childhood, but when I weighed the pros and cons, I often circled back to my fear that the dog would die and leave me heartbroken. Death motivated many of my decisions at the time. However, seeing Ramón and Alfie made me long for a similar bond.  

Ramón was at Jazz Fest in New Orleans when Ileana sent me a picture of soon-to-be Noodle. I forwarded the photo to him.

Me: Can we get this dog?
Ramón: Yes.

I didn’t expect that to be his answer. We lived in our own condos, and I didn’t even know what I was asking. Where would the dog live?

I sat there staring at my phone, unsure what to say.

Ramón: Where is the dog?
Me: She’s in North Carolina with Ileana.
Ramón: We can go get her when I’m home.

This was moving very fast. I voiced some of my concerns to Ramón, and he bought none of them. He said she could live at his place. I slowly realized this was going to happen.

Noodle needed to be vetted before we could make the adoption official. The next week, Ileana told me that Noodle had heartworms. As a non-dog owner, I wasn’t sure what this meant, but Ileana assured me it was okay if we changed our minds. The treatment for heartworm disease wouldn’t be cheap, nor would it be fast.

Ramón was back in town, and I called him to relay the news.

“Hey, Noodle is heartworm positive.”

“Okay,” Ramón responded.

“The treatment can be expensive and takes at least six months.” I thought maybe this was the piece of information that would effectively cancel the semi-accidental dog adoption.

“We’ll get her taken care of,” Ramón assured me.

I don’t know why I was surprised by this. Maybe because I’d only known him five months? Since Ramón was willing to commit to a person with an incurable disease, I should have assumed he’d do the same for a dog with a treatable condition.

In 2012, if I’d been forced to put odds on who would die first, it would have been me or Noodle—never Ramón.

But here I am celebrating thirteen years with Noodle—almost five more than I got with Ramón. Noodle is about fifteen years old now, and I hope to eke out another couple years with her.

I love you, my little soul-dog!