All my life I’ve been the youngest in my family. But that changed four years ago when we got a six-week old, half chihuahua, half dachshund puppy. Milo. I was finally an older sibling.

Having a dog is like having a baby in the house. He’d cry through out the night because he didn’t want to be in his kennel and he’d poop and pee whenever and wherever he wanted. Eventually, the baby grows up to become a toddler who is learning the ways of life–by creating a mess in the house. Essentially, Milo grew out of his lazy puppy days and began to “explore” the house. I’d come home to find a blanket chewed up, the wood of the futon gnawed on, and poop and pee just a few feet away from his pee-pee pad. He was learning alright.

It was time for big sis to step in. Of course I wasn’t the only one to teach him the rules of the house. My big sis was there too. We potty-trained him together, took him to dog obedience school, showered him, and groomed him. 

I got to experience what it was like to have a “younger sibling”. The best part was being able to play jokes on Milo. One time I ran from my room to the back room of the house with him chasing after me. Before he rounded the corner of the couch, I closed the screen door shut. Guess what happened next? You got it, he ran smack into the screen. Sure, it was mean, but it was still funny. Afterall, isn’t that why we have siblings?

But as an older sibling, I also had to act as the older one. I scolded him when he did something wrong, and helped take care of him. I’d clean up the mess he made, feed him, and soothe him when he was scared. He was my baby brother and I had to make sure he was doing okay.

My family treated him like he was one of us. Sometimes when I went out with my friends at the park, my mom would make me take him along, the same way she used to make my sister take me along with her and her friends. We all update our friends and family about Milo like one would do with a baby.

But my glory of having a younger sibling comes with a price. A younger sibling. He barks at me to play with him when I’m busy with homework, begs me to give him more food, and takes over my stuff, such as my old stuffed animals, my bed, and my old blankets. Sometimes I’d come home and find a “Milo hole” in my blanket, which is his trademark–a blanket shaped tunnel in the form of his body. It’s evidence that he’s been in my bed.

What happens when he barks at me to play with him? I yell back. We fight. And when he whimpers with those puppy eyes asking for more food? I stare at him, say no, and eventually give in and give him a dog cookie. And what happened to my favorite blankey? It’s his now. With a hole chewed in it.

Despite all that, I still love him. And my family does, too. He’s changed the way our family functions. He’s the cutie running around our house. He’s been through the hardships and laughter we went through. He isn’t the world’s worst dog. He isn’t just a dog. He’s family. He’s my little bro.

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