Cavachon

Your Cavachon is doing that thing again — the one where they tilt their head just slightly, ears framing their face like a Renaissance portrait, and you completely forget what you were doing. They're twelve pounds of pure emotional intelligence wrapped in a cloud of silky, barely-shedding fur that somehow always smells better than it should. They followed you to the bathroom this morning. They followed you to the kitchen. They're following you right now with those enormous round eyes that say 'I would simply cease to exist if you left this room.' And the thing is, you believe them. Your Cavachon didn't just join your family — they restructured it. They're the reason you come home at lunch now. They're why your couch has a permanent indent the exact size of a curled-up teddy bear. They greet every single human like a long-lost friend, tail going in full helicopter mode, and somehow they've never met a stranger. You got a dog. What you ended up with is a professional cuddler with a therapy license and an advanced degree in making you feel like the most important person on the planet.