Our baby was 9 months old when my husband and I imploded our lives. The month prior, one of our two dogs died unexpectedly, and our other pup, Rex, was beside himself with grief. A week after her passing, we learned Rex was in heart failure and had just months to live.

So, we did exactly what you’re not supposed to do: We made a big life decision while having Very Big Feelings. We had always wanted a Rhodesian ridgeback puppy, and we decided the time to get one was right then. We wanted Rex to have a playmate again and truly enjoy his last months, and we (illogically) hoped some part of him would rub off on his little sibling before he left us.

I had ridgebacks growing up and had great experiences, so we researched reputable breeders in our state and found one who had one 6-month-old puppy, the last of her litter, ready to adopt. Without meeting her, we paid in full, picked a name (Zelda), and they drove her up the next day.

We’ve all heard of the baby blues, but I didn’t know the puppy blues are also very much a thing. Instead of one 9-month-old baby teething, needing to be fed, entertained, and his diaper changed, I now also had a 6-month-old puppy teething — with 28 needle-like little puppy teeth — needing to be fed, stimulated, trained, and house broken.

The breeder told me puppies need a certain amount of sleep to grow, so suddenly I had two nap schedules to worry about. I was raised around dogs, cats, livestock, all kinds of animals. But I didn’t know that raising a puppy is a lot like having a velociraptor in your house for nearly a year before they can be considered civilized company. I was on edge all the time, constantly cleaning up poop, taking something dangerous out of someone’s mouth, and making sure the puppy didn’t treat my actual baby like a squeaky toy.

When Zelda was tall enough to put her front paws on the kitchen counter, she went through a spate of counter surfing and would steal anything she could from the kitchen. She revealed this new talent when it was just us two at home, and she playfully darted into the living room — wielding a six-inch paring knife. She had snatched the wooden handled blade from the dish drying mat in the kitchen. She loved to turn anything wood into splinters, something she did with all our baby’s alphabet blocks and the legs of our living room ottoman, and had clearly set her sights on this knife handle next. But in her playful, butt-up-in-the-air position, I knew she’d dart away if I tried to take the blade. So I put my hands up and talked her down, sounding for all the world like an exasperated cop: “Zelda, sit. Drop the knife.”

My mind flashed to a worst-case scenario in which my baby had been home, and the dog somehow nicked him during her knife-wielding mad dash around the house. I could see the authorities cuffing me and hauling me away from my son’s hospital bedside as I screamed, “I swear it wasn’t me, the dog did it!” The news would diagnose me with a postpartum mental health condition, when really, it was the dog who drove me out of my mind. It’s funny in hindsight, but living through it, her antics were exhausting.

If I had it to do over, we wouldn’t have gotten a puppy when we did. I would have waited until our son was older so we could have enjoyed Zelda more. I would do a ton more research on what having a puppy is actually like. We also took for granted that a puppy from a breeder would be a blank slate — no past abuse, like our many rescues before her, and cleared of all major physical health issues by the breeder.

But Zelda had crippling anxiety. She required months of daily training just to be able to go on a walk and get in and out of the car. She is terrified of strangers and sudden noises, often spooking and running into things around the house to get away. I grew up dealing with anxious rescues — canine and equine — but the amount of effort it took to help her through the worst of it, while also raising a baby and working full-time, came at the cost of my sanity.

Of course, we always loved Zelda. I thought she and our son, Cooper, would be inseparable, and they are. Zelda sees him as a littermate and lines up for snacks when he gets one too, and he is immensely jealous of any good spot she secures on the couch. When I get out the vacuum, he rushes to stand in front of her crate and tells me, “Mama, Zelda no like that,” like a good big brother.

And, to her credit, Zelda has always been a gem where it matters most: she loves Cooper, despite his loud noises, antics, and chaos. In her case, being raised alongside him has inured her to the sights and sounds of living with a toddler, and nothing he does seems to bother her, despite her anxiety about pretty much everything else in life. She is constantly at his side, sniffing his hair, supervising, and waiting for his attention. When my son talks about his family, it’s “Mama, Daddy, and Zeldie.” I am so glad she’s in our family, but my husband and I have a new rule: we will never again adopt a puppy.

Katie McPherson is the Associate Lifestyle Editor at Romper and Scary Mommy. She loves reading, boxing, horseback riding, and rotting on the couch after a long day. She married her college sweetheart, and now they have one son, a very large dog, and achey joints.