If you’d told me five years ago that I’d be spending a sunny Los Angeles afternoon on Zoom with a pet psychic while Franklin, my one-and-a-half-year-old Maltipoo puppy, contentedly chewed a carrot toy on my lap, it’s safe to say that I wouldn’t have believed you.

With the exception of a forgettable trio of fish and a hamster I inexplicably named Shaquille who was not long for this world, I didn’t grow up with pets. My childhood pleas for a puppy were unsuccessful; ultimately, my mom and dad were right that said puppy’s care would have 100% fallen on them. Later on, as my friends brought home bodega kittens in their backpacks, or put down roots and became dog moms and dads, I happily visited or dogsat. But I didn’t feel quite ready to take the plunge myself.

I was 31 when that changed,

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