I have a strict Adopt, Don’t Shop policy for dog cohabitation. I can’t even bring myself to say “dog ownership.” The description makes me cringe, as it implies that dogs are objects, like pieces of furniture to be placed on the curb for trash collection once one tires of them. Gypsy, my current canine acquisition came from a tiny, underfunded animal shelter in southern Ohio the summer I spent working on a photography documentary project about the opioid addiction crisis — the most depressing story of my career. During the early afternoon hours, when the light was harsh and I couldn’t take pictures, I would visit Sierra’s Haven For New and Used Pets as a way to nurse my bruised soul back to life. When the time came to leave Ohio, I adopted an 11-pound terrier mix named Gypsy, who resembled a cross between a dachshund and the actor, Tony Shalhoub. She instantly attached herself to me like Velcro. Since that day more than four years ago, she’s made it quite clear with her buzzsaw personality that everyone else can and should just bugger off. An animal behaviorist once determined that her quirks were most likely the result of backyard breeding, poor socialization, or breed-specific personality traits. Or all of the above. Having said all that, I would not kick a labradoodle out of my bed. I’ve never met one who has failed to charm me. They’re like poodles with a sense of humor. I regularly babysit a doodle named Rhombus — a large, boxy-shaped gal that Gypsy insists on humping in her obnoxious display of dominance. You’ve earned yourself plenty of karma credit and should be allowed to enjoy your doodle, guilt-free!