At 49, I shouldn’t have adopted newborns. Rescue puppies, that is. And certainly not after spending two decades raising three kids (now 24, 23, and 20) and two different dogs (who have both since passed away). I’d survived a bad marriage and a contentious divorce, sold a suburban Washington, D.C., home, and renovated and moved into a row house in the District. I was finally making time for me. Like 42 percent of Americans (up from 39 percent in 2007, according to Pew Research), I was going to be living alone and was very excited about it. Yet, I adopted two Great Pyrenees — mix puppies, five weeks apart, each 11 weeks old. (My first two human children are 14-months apart. Hmmm. Do we see a pattern here?)
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