My parents decided to get a second dog this summer. Our family didn’t get its first pet, an adorable cockapoo I named Dawson, until I was a freshman in college. (Yes, this also happened to be around the series finale of Dawson’s Creek, but whatever. I thought Pacey was cuter). I figured my parents were trying to make up for lost pet time. Or my sister and me living on opposite coasts.

I met Zoe, a black Wheaten Terrier, when I went home in July. She immediately tried to eat my face and attack me at every opportunity. I didn’t hold her much because she wouldn’t stay still. I thought she was crazy. My parents said it’s called being a puppy. I won’t fight about semantics. I’d just like to keep my face.

Should Zoe be perching on the coffee table? No. Do my parents care? Not a bit. Does Dawson? Don’t even get him started.

When Thanksgiving rolled around, I was curious what my 10-day visit would be like. My parents would have to work. I would be alone with the dogs. They said she was doing well in puppy school and was learning “tricks.” I wondered if one of the tricks happened to be “don’t eat Jacky’s face and sit still.”

As soon as my parents brought me home from the airport, Zoe tried to attack my face. And my legs. And my head. This girl can jump. I retreated to the corner of the living room as my parents laughed at me. Then got out the video camera.

Zoe stays in her crate when my parents go to work. I left her there in the basement, closing the door to the upstairs, trying to remain as quiet as possible so she wouldn’t realize I was home and start crying. I made sure to pay special attention to Dawson. I thought he was depressed and neglected. As older siblings, he and I really have to stick together.

My dad comes home at lunch to play with Zoe, and eventually I let him leave her out. And then I told my parents to keep her crate-free in the mornings too. I’d still have crazy attacks from her in which she’d pounce on the bed and attempt to eat my ponytail, but now she actually settled down and would curl up right next to me, or down at my feet, a soft furball footwarmer.

By the end of my trip, we’d officially bonded and I was sad to leave her. I didn’t need my dad shoving Zoe’s face in mine for goodbye kisses (uh yeah, on the lips. Ew gross.) but I had managed to find more room in my heart for this happy little crackhead who just wants to be around people.

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