pooch therapy

It's a crazy time to bring a dog into our family.
The economy is tanking; the planet is burning, and we still haven't trained our kids.
But last Friday, desperate for some holiday-weekend diversion other than video games, and after spending, I'll confess, months of staring at Labradoodle sites and visiting the wonderful Guide Dogs breeder program, of which I'll write more at some point, and of course also of tuning in to Pres.-elect O's pooch dilemma , because it really is hard to justify spending a couple thou on a designer dog, even if shedding is a problem, we visited the Marin Humane Society and there, in the second cage on dog row, was Daisy, nearly three years old, and giving us this look like, "What part of CUTE do you not understand?"
She's enjoying the backyard and squirrels and extra snacks and a great deal of cuddling from all four of us, but I don't know yet if she realizes how much work she has in store. I expect a lot from her, chiefly including: diverting my kids from their cursed electronic habits, and from fighting with each other, getting my sedentary husband out the door to walk her, keeping me company as I slog through rewrites on the five wordy chapters I should be working on RIGHT NOW, continuing to be non-shedding (thank goodness) and apparently (fingers crossed) house-trained, and, oh yes, being perfectly obedient in every way and not waking us at night. Talk about your audacity of hope!