Shar Pei

Nobody is prepared for how a Shar Pei loves you. You see the wrinkles — everyone sees the wrinkles — and you think you're getting a novelty dog, some wrinkly little hippo-bear that'll waddle around being cute for Instagram. Then you actually live with one, and you realize you've adopted the most quietly devoted, stubbornly dignified, hilariously deadpan creature on the planet. A Shar Pei doesn't fawn. They don't grovel. They will not perform tricks for strangers or wiggle with delight when someone new walks through the door. What they will do is follow you from room to room like a wrinkly shadow, settle exactly two feet from wherever you are, and watch you with those tiny, deep-set eyes that somehow communicate an entire novel's worth of loyalty. They'll rest their sandpaper head on your knee — just barely, like they're doing you a favor — and that's it. You're done. You belong to a Shar Pei now. They'll never say it out loud, obviously, because Shar Peis have far too much ancient Chinese dignity for that. But when you catch them sleeping belly-up in a sunbeam, all those wrinkles pooling around them like a velvet blanket, you'll know: this ridiculous, regal, impossible dog loves you completely. They just refuse to make a scene about it.