On a hot day at the end of June we travelled to St. Laurent to pick up our puppy. Puppies, as it happens, are not conducive to writing. I am overwhelmed by feelings and have no distance between them and myself. If I pry a little spot, this is what rushes in: I marvel at our good luck - the breeders are an extraordinary couple with decades of experience and so many awards for their beagles that they’ve donated a portion (by the bagful, he tells me) to a center requesting award-décor.

The puppies in their cages yelp eagerly and wag their tails. Their parents are outside, relaxed and lean, the bitches in one fenced-area, the studs in another. There is our puppy’s mom, there is his aunt. There is his dad.

There is a trend online with the hashtag “adopt, don’t shop” and I understand this well-meant admonition. I feel guilty about our pure-bread, about not nobly stepping in for a rescue. Conversely, I’m very relieved to be able to rest on the fact that our puppy’s breeder is top-notch, that their kennel of beagles is an ideal one.