I used to think I was a cat person.

Because certainly cats are the superior race—their cold indifference, independence and frequent naps are much more preferred over dogs’ drool-ridden bursts of hyperactivity.

Dogs shed, drool, chew up your socks and track in mud.

This is what I always believed; perfectly content with my no fuss, all-calculation-and-occasionally-cuddly Siamese cat, Elia.

What’s so great about dogs, anyway?

This is what I used to wonder, until we got Ozzy.

Ozzy is my sloppy, erratic, ball of fur and ray of sunshine that my family adopted in the summer of 2012 from a litter at the Humane Society. At the time, he was only a few months old and, being half-German Shepherd, his floppy “Dobby ears” instantly won me over.

After nearly two years later, I’ve come to prefer him over most humans.

He’s smart, he’s sweet, and he has this inexplicable joy to be alive that inherently fills me with joy.

When I get home from school, he’s on the sofa waiting for my return. He doesn’t go to bed till I do, and when he does it’s on the floor next to my bed.

He’s my buddy.

And I’m not the only one with a change of heart. Even my finicky Elia has all but adopted him, occasionally caught cuddling up to him.

In a way, Ozzy’s brought out a side of me I’ve never been fully aware of – a side of me that likes to go to parks, and on hikes, and to picnics and festivals.

As long as I can take him with me.