Over the course of the last 30 plus years, we’ve never had a household without a dog or dogs. Growing up, when we asked for pets, we got a definite and vehement “NO” from our dad. One year, he relented and we had a brief and unsuccessful experiment with goldfish. Turned out none of us had any knowledge of goldfish and we all fed them, resulting in them floating upside down very soon after they came to live with us. I remember trying to persuade everyone else that the fish were not dead, that maybe they were just sleeping upside down. That, of course, was not the case!

Our dogs have been purebred, they have been rescues, and sometimes dogs that someone else had and could not manage. Each one of them we have loved and, while many of them have lived out their too short lifespans, we still cherish their memories and talk about them, reminiscing about each one’s personality and quirks, sharing funny stories about moments we still treasure.

It has become our habit, of late, to take our dogs to a local Farmer’s Market on Sunday morning. I pick up my vegetables while my husband and the dogs wait in a nearby park. Once I have put our produce for the week into the car, we take a walkway along the river, enjoying the fresh air and the views of the water. Both of our dogs are interested in everything, from new smells to dogs that pass their way. Our big dog, who is a Golden, is particularly interested in anyone who might want to stop and pet her—preferably for as long as possible. The little dog, a rescue of indeterminate breed, is willing to take the attention but it is is not his driving force as it is his sister’s.

Countless times along the walk, we are asked “Is this a Golden?” The answer, of course, is yes. Then they look at the little one, his fur always a tangle, his one eye blue and the other brown, and ask, quizzically, “What is that one?” “Oh, he’s a rescue,” we say, meaning that we have no way of knowing his parentage. As I’ve said that, though, I sometimes find myself feeling a bit defensive about it, the way I would about someone asking similar things in a similar judgmental tone about a person, as if he is being “put down” for not having the right label or, in fact, any label.

I often say words that I wholly believe, that a person is a person is a person, that we are all of equal value and all must be afforded the same human and civil rights. And, as I have thought about my answer regarding our dog, it occurred to me that, like Pickles, we are all rescues. We all come from not just different backgrounds but from diverse and unique experiences. We each have something to offer, opportunities to grow, and lives to live. And, if we are fortunate, relationships that nourish and support us.

I thought about coming up with some exotic breed for Pickles, inventing some identity to be used in the face of questions. And then I realized that what had to change was not the truth but rather the way I framed it. “He’s a unique and special mix,” I will now say, knowing that rescue is not who he is but rather what he offers to us, holding tightly onto a piece of our full hearts.