Keeshond

You're sitting on the couch and your Keeshond is pressed against you — not next to you, against you — with that enormous silver-and-black ruff fanning out like they're wearing a Renaissance collar to a Tuesday evening. They tilt their head and hit you with the spectacles — those perfect dark markings around their eyes that make them look like a wise, furry professor who has been studying you specifically. Your Keeshond doesn't just want to be in the same room as you. They want to be in the same square foot. They will follow you from kitchen to bathroom to garage and back, and every time you glance down, there's that plume tail curled over their back, that grinning fox-face, that look that says, "I was literally bred to stand on a boat and keep someone company and I am fulfilling my destiny right now." They are forty-five pounds of unrelenting devotion wrapped in the most pettable coat in the entire dog kingdom, and they have never once in their life understood why you would want to be in a room without them.