When I was about twelve years old, on the way back from a weekend of skiing, my family stopped at a pet shop in Calaveras County, and bought a puppy.

My brother and I were, of course, ecstatic. But, within a week or two, it became immensely clear that my father – allergic both to the dog, and to everything the dog would roll around in outside in our backyard – couldn’t live in the same house without becoming a blearily red-eyed, constantly sneezing and coughing histaminic mess.

While we briefly contemplated getting rid of our father (an option for which my brother and I heavily lobbied), in the end, it was the dog that went, handed off to a happy family with kids my brother and I esteemed as far, far luckier than we. And ever since, my brother and I have both coveted the dogs of others and badly wanted ones of our own.

I’m reminded of this each time I head up – as this weekend – to visit Jess’ family in Boston. Her parents own a Portuguese Water Dog, Pablo, who’s less than a year old, sweet tempered, and exceedingly cute. At the end of each visit, Jess and I return to New York determined to get a dog.

By now, however, it’s not the dictates of cruel parents, but of equally cruel landlords that prevent dog ownership – our building, like many in New York, doesn’t allow pets. But, as we’re likely to move regardless once our lease ends at the end of the year, Jess and I have put ‘dog friendly’ atop the list of requirements for potential apartments.

So, still, a bit of waiting. But I don’t much mind. After fifteen years with my eyes on the furry prize, I’m sure I can hold out puppy-less for a bit longer yet.