A slice of Oregon forest, a fragrant eight-foot noble pine, reigns over our living room in Southern California. I drape the boughs with a final string of lights—silly plastic teddy bears I’ve had for years—and step down from the ladder. It’s growing late on a Sunday afternoon. Our favorite Frank Sinatra carols are playing, scalloped potatoes are bubbling in the oven and the sun is going down over the Pacific Ocean. I’ve been looking forward to this: relaxing in front of the fire, the room lit only by the tree. I should have known better.

Wilbur, a four-month-old Dachshund with a dash of Papillon or Chihuahua in the mix, was to be my first foster pup. A standout at the shelter, his irresistible face and personality sealed the deal. Once I got him home, I noticed that his lower jaw was considerably shorter than the upper one. Although he appeared to be almost chinless, it made his smile more pronounced. No big deal, I thought— he’s so adorable.