Last Halloween, my 20-month-old son, James, donned a fuzzy brown-and-white onesie and spent the evening barking at the ghosts, witches, and other ghouls out trick-or-treating. When a neighbor inquired after his costume, James simply said, “Mo,” and pointed to the short-legged, long-bodied, floppyeared creature beside him.
My husband, Matt, and I adopted Mo from a shelter in 2019. She’s the kind of dog whose makeup is a mystery, but if I had to guess, I’d say she’s a mix of dachshund and Rhodesian Ridgeback, with some pit bull thrown in. We had initially wanted an older dog, but when we opened her cage, she ran right up to us, all puppy licks and wiggles, and promptly dropped her squeaky mouse at our feet. I suggested we call her Mo, after…
