As I sit here in my cozy little Los Angeles home, typing away on my laptop, I am flanked on either side by my favorite “laptops” of all: my precious pups, Louise and Mijo. Along with my partner, Salvador, we are a perfect family. It’s hard for me to remember a time when we didn’t wake up to these furry joyful faces, tongues hanging out beneath their big brown eyes, their tails wagging enthusiastically. I truly believe that destiny brought us all together. But to really tell the story of how this human-dog family came to be, we have to go back in time to a day before these two cuddly canines were even born.

Dogs are nothing new to me. I grew up in a family that loved big dogs. That’s all we ever had—wonderfully large, floppy, slobbery canines. The first official Mathews pup was a Springer Spaniel. I know what you’re thinking: That’s a large dog?!?

But, come on, gimme a break. I was three years old and everything seemed big to me then. Her name was Bootsie, and because I was so young at the time, my only remaining memory of her is a photo taken of us when I had chicken pox. We were both covered in matching spots: hers brown, mine bright red. Adorable, right?

After Bootsie, we had Iggy, named after Ignatowski, my dad’s favorite character on Taxi (played by Christopher Lloyd, best known as Doc Brown in the classic Back to the Future, the pretty good Back to the Future 2, and the crapfest Back to the Future 3 ).

Our dog Iggy was a big, strong golden Lab, and an expert hunter. Witnessing Iggy diligently deliver mallard after dead mallard to my father’s feet left my dad’s hunting buddies in awe. “Shit, Tom, you ol’ cocksucker,” they’d marvel, “that son of a bitch Iggy is the finest damned dog I ever did see.”

They were right. Iggy really was the best. He must have weighed like a hundred pounds, and yet he’d purr like a tiny kitten when I’d pet him. I had such a great childhood with Iggy. While he gnawed on enormous Flintstones-sized soup bones out on our backyard patio, I used to sit on the other side of the sliding glass door with a dry erase board, trying to teach him English. I found it so frustrating that he couldn’t speak and I yearned to know what he’d say if only he could. He’d stare attentively at me as I delivered my lecture. “A is for apple! A sounds like ‘Aaaaaayyyyyy.’ You like apples, don’t you, Iggy? If you say it, you can have all the apples you want!”

This was pre–cell phone, or I would have the footage to prove it, but I swear one time he almost said it.

We truly had a soul connection, Iggy and I. He lived until the ripe old age of fifteen, when the agonizing pain in his hips finally took its toll. Dogs can never really let you know how much pain they’re in, but you could see it in his eyes and almost feel it every time he tried to stand up. He was so much braver than I would have been. I’m such a drama queen—I get a sore throat and you’d think I was starring in the Broadway musical version of Terms of Endearment (mental note: tweet Tony winner Kristin Chenoweth about this). But not Iggy, he was strong.

Even though it was inevitable, putting him down was something my family constantly dreaded for the last few years of his life. But when the time finally came, the experience was actually quite beautiful, believe it or not. As he lay on the examining table at the vet’s office, my entire family gathered around him, recounting our favorite Iggy stories and telling him over and over how much we loved him. The vet administered The Shot, and as our beloved Iggy drifted off into an eternal nap, gently dropping his head into my arms, we kissed him on his chocolate nose and said a final good-bye. I wish we could all go that way—gracefully and surrounded by love.

It was the first time in my young life that I’d ever experienced death. Initially, I was worried that the pain of Iggy’s passing would scar me forever, making it impossible for me to even consider touching another K-9 with a ten-foot pole. But once a dog person, always a dog person, and by the time I was in college, I could no longer deny that I was, in fact, one of “those” people. I began to allow myself to daydream about my postcollege pet. I would graduate, move into an apartment, and get a dog of my very own.

I already had an inclination as to what this new puppy would look like: she’d be a she, and as small as she could be. Owning a small dog was a first for a Mathews man. As I mentioned earlier, I come from a long legacy of large-dog lovers. Historically, Mathews men measure their masculinity by the pounds of their pooches, but I was smart enough to know that ignoring lapdogs was a complete lapse in judgment.

Don’t get me wrong: big dogs are wonderful. America’s loved them for generations—Rin Tin Tin, Lassie, and the dog from Turner and Hooch (I can never remember which one was the dog and which one was Tom Hanks). If big dogs work for you, by all means, go adopt two or three right now and give them a wonderful life and a good home.

You’ve heard the phrase “Bigger is better”? But when it comes to dogs, at least, I personally couldn’t disagree more. For me, it’s less about “size” and more about “sighs” (as in, “Ahhhhh! Oh my God, how cute is that scrumptious li’l dog?!?!?!?!?”).

Here are some arguments for why, in my opinion (and it’s my book, so, not to be rude, but it’s kinda the only opinion that matters right now), little dogs tower above their gargantuan counterparts. I have to warn you, I was on the debate team in high school, so you might want to skip this part if you don’t want to be absolutely convinced that I’m right and you’re so totally wrong.

By now, I’ll assume you’re thoroughly convinced and have enthusiastically jumped aboard the Small Dog Express. Toot toot!

For me, the case was clear. A little dog was the way to go. Unfortunately, pets weren’t allowed in the small apartment I lived in after college, which was a shame, because it was only a few hundred dollars a month and had relatively few cockroaches (probably because the rats ate them). The decision was simple: I had to find somewhere else to live—a place where wagging tails were welcome, drinking out of the toilet bowl wasn’t a crime, and man’s best friend was considered an acceptable roommate.

You know when the universe gives you exactly what you need, exactly when you need it? Like finding a $20 bill in your pocket when you’re broke and your gas tank is empty, or when Christina Aguilera’s “Genie in a Bottle” comes on the radio when your spirit is broken and your soul is empty. Just like that, finding my next apartment proved to be one of those cosmic, meant-to-be kind of things.

Driving to the craft store one day, I took a wrong turn down a side street and got lost. When I pulled into a driveway to turn around, I almost hit a For Rent sign that read: 2 Bedroom, 1 Bath, Fenced Backyard, Pets Welcome.

Pets welcome? A backyard? Craft store adjacent?!? Where do I sign?!?

Five minutes after I’d completed the paperwork and the place was officially mine, Operation Find Fido was in full swing. I told everyone I came in contact with to keep an eye out for the perfect dog. I left no stone unturned, reaching out to every person I knew—from my butcher, to my baker, to my candlestick maker.

Everyone in my life knew I was looking for my doggie soul mate, Louise. Yes, Louise. It was preordained, that would be her name. Why Louise, you ask? Five simple reasons: One, it’s a beautiful name. Two, three, and four, Louise is the middle name of my mother, my grandmother, and my great-grandmother. And five, on the rare occasions when my precocious puppy misbehaved at the dog park, I could sing out, “Geez, Louise!” while racing after her.

Almost as soon as the search party started, we struck gold. I got a call from a friend who was nearly hyperventilating with excitement. “Ross, I was just at the vet’s office where I saw the most amazing, teeny-tiny, fluffiest thing you could ever imagine. I think I might have found your Louise.”

I dropped everything and raced to my prospective new dog-ter’s side.

It turns out that a rescue organization had just saved a mom and her litter, consisting of three four-week-old puppies, from a cement pipe in a vacant lot amid the mean streets of South Central Los Angeles. Each teeny pup weighed no more than a pound and looked like an oversized ball of cotton. I rushed to meet them, and the instant I held the little girl puppy, fitting perfectly in the palm of my hand, she had me in the palm of hers.

Yep, I was wrapped around her little finger, which of course wasn’t really possible because she’s a dog with paws, but you get my point. She was the most precious, beautiful creature I’d ever seen. Obviously intelligent and inquisitive, she kept constant eye contact as I spoke to her. Her fur was softer than a fancy store-bought teddy bear, her puppy breath was the sweetest thing you’ve ever smelled (mark my words, whoever figures out how to bottle the scent of puppy breath and sell it on QVC will be a billionaire), and her chocolate-brown nose was exactly the same size as a Gummy Bear’s head.

I knew, without a doubt, I was finally meeting her, the Louise I’d been yearning for. And you know what? I was right. She was, and still remains, the most paw-fect little doggie angel face I’ve ever met. Well, she used to be the sole carrier of that title, but now she happily shares it with a four-pound Chihuahua named Mijo.

Fast-forward about five years. Louise is a vivacious, grown-up lady with two daddies: me and my partner, Salvador. Side note: in my next life I want to come back as the pampered pooch of two doting gay men. Can you say “center of attention”?

We had just returned from an Alaskan cruise and were positively exhausted. Starving and faced with an empty refrigerator, we did what all good same-sex couples do when short on food: we went hunting. Yep, we went hunting for artisanal cheeses and organic vegetables at our local farmers market.

Salvador knew the farmers market was one of my very favorite places. I love the neighborhood feel, the fresh produce, and, best of all, stopping to visit the doggies available for adoption. I’d been bugging him for months about the idea of adding to our family. “What do you think about getting another dog?” I’d often ask. “Don’t you think Louise deserves a little brother or sister?”

But Salvador always insisted that it was a bad idea. As much as I persisted, there was simply no changing his mind. That was why I was so shocked that day at the farmers market when, while passing the adoptable pooches on our way out as we had done every Sunday before, he pointed at—no joke—the smallest dog I had ever seen and matter-of-factly said, “That one.”

“Huh?” I was so confused.

“Look at that one. He’s, I don’t know…so cute. There’s just something about him.”

I’m not kidding you, the dog he was pointing at was less than half the size of the handmade chicken tamale I had just devoured while browsing for locally grown brussels sprouts.

The woman running the adoption agency approached us, smiling. “Do you wanna meet this little guy?” she asked while picking him up and placing him in Salvador’s already outstretched arms.

I started squealing and clapping, knowing it was a done deal. He went home with us that very night and we named him Mijo (a Spanish term of endearment meaning “my son”). From the moment we welcomed him into our casa, he and his big sis, Louise, have been inseparable.

Which brings us back to me, sitting here on the couch in LA, bookended by the best two friends a guy like me could ever hope for. These two dogs—combined—weigh a mere twelve pounds, but their impact on our lives has been immeasurable. Sure, one day Salvador and I hope to have human kids of our own, but until we hear the pitter-patter of little feet, we’re happy with the clickity-clack of paws with claws.

You see, the four of us are a family. Not only have they fulfilled my lifelong dream of being a doggy daddy to pint-sized pups, but they have also taught both Salvador and me so much. Louise came along right after my dad died and showed me that there can once again be joy after tragedy. Mijo helped teach Salvador a whole new level of unconditional love. And they both taught us a valuable lesson all parents should know: if you have dogs or children and you’re going to invest in expensive, high-quality, wall-to-wall carpet for your living room, avoid choosing a light color. May I suggest a deep dark brown? Trust me on this—no matter how hard you scrub, club soda doesn’t get everything out.