You know that question… “What’s the most expensive personal item you’ve ever purchased, excluding your home or car?”
Well, I didn’t buy him. I rescued him.
But if we’re talking in terms of impact, devotion, and the money I’ve poured into him since the rescue… then yes. His name is Chico.
He’s a Chihuahua Corgi mix with white fur like freshly washed hotel sheets, fawn markings on his ears, and little caramel freckles scattered across his body like God got distracted while painting but left him adorable anyway.
He is ten pounds of side eye, sass, and selective hearing. And somehow, despite not costing a dime to bring home, he now runs a luxury lifestyle operation out of my living room.
He sleeps on a tempurpedic orthopedic throne, also known as my pillow. His wardrobe is broader than mine, from hoodies to raincoats to one particular sweater that says “Security,” which is deeply ironic since he’s terrified of squirrels and tape dispensers. He has a stroller. Not for walking, of course. For being seen.
And his meals? Chicken breast poached in bone broth. I once caught myself garnishing his dinner with parsley like he was being judged on Top Chef: Canine Edition. He looked unimpressed. As always.
He wasn’t a purchase. He was a turning point.
The day I brought him home, he didn’t ask for anything, not even attention. He just curled up in the crook of my elbow like he’d been waiting for me this whole time. And I knew. This one? He’s mine. And I’m his.
Sure, he’s got expensive taste and dramatic flair. But he’s also got the kind of soul that watches you cry and quietly rests a paw on your knee.
That’s not something you can buy.
That’s something you’re lucky enough to find.
Coffee With Caylin 