My wife and I have two boys in their thirties and a girl who’s about the same age we are.

In dog-years, that is.

The ever-cheerful Rita came into our lives last July, and my pet-loving editor was quick to approve some reflections for Webb on our 12-month journey:

To quote the title of a 1942 thriller, we had been “cat people” up till then; no sense having a canine who’d be alone all day as both of us worked full time.

But by 2023, I had retired, and our cats were both gone; so my wife began lobbying for a pooch. I am admittedly wild about dogs, but I was slow to get on board with this. Dr. Wife was still full time, so that would put a damper on my impulsive “retirement day-trips”; and our long weekend bike-rides would be problematic too.

But I didn’t resist too hard.

With many nearby places offering adoption, a friend’s Facebook posts drew us to Blue Chip Farm Animal Refuge in Dallas. One sunny summer Sunday we drove the 75 minutes to peruse their offerings, which also include cats and bunnies.

I’m such a dog-lover that I was ready to choose after meeting several frisky one-year-olds (probably a mistake for someone my age who hasn’t much patience); we had actually stepped into the office for paperwork when one of the friendly volunteer staff asked if we already had any dogs.

Hearing our answer, she suggested a black-and-white female — caged near the desk because she didn’t do well with other canines. The staffer pleaded that this little lady had been at the refuge so long, she was about to get fostered out.

Our interest deepened when we learned that she was already eight years old, prone to ear infections and sporting a funky leg that had broken in her youth and never got set right. No wonder they had trouble moving this pooch!

But for Mona and me, it was love at first sight.

Blue Chip sent us home with a collar & matching leash, a large bag of food, two bowls and Rita’s familiar bed — plus a large crate that folded up nicely into the back of the car; she was also spayed, with vaccines and a microchip — all for a handy $250.

The dog was called Pamela; but we have a neighbor with that name and thought it might be awkward to shout for her outdoors. So, I suggested “Rita” — short for “Senorita,” because she was originally from … Puerto Rico!

The former Pamela had been brought here by the Sato Project, whose website laments that this island boasts nearly half a million strays. Indeed, Puerto Rico actually has a dumping-ground called “Dead Dog Beach” — and Sato fights this crisis by flying street dogs to America for adoption.

That probably explains why Rita prefers scraps and people-snacks to even the fanciest dog food. She especially loves nacho chips, peanut butter, Cheez-Its and any form of chicken — but I had to draw the line when she insisted on sampling my poolside beer on her very first day.

Though this tail-waggy girl never complains, I’m mindful of Rita’s many maladies (including a terribly sensitive stomach) and prone to call her our “broken dog.”

But God loves broken creatures — and so do we.

In any case, over the coming weeks that nickname was supplemented with various other catchphrases: Velcro dog, comedy dog, table moocher, dog brain, “Go back to bed,” “There is nothing in the garage,” “Go see Mom!”, “Leave the squirrel alone,” and, of course … “Good girl!”

Initially, her biggest problem was a baffling refusal to go into or out of the house. On arrival, I had to carry her in from the garage (good thing she weighs under 40 pounds!) — and then haul her back out to pee several times over the following 16 hours.

The next morning I finally told myself, “OK; I’m just gonna prop the door open, then take a chair, book & coffee out to the sidewalk”; so, while I’m fiddling on the threshold with all that junk, she dashes right past me and sails out to explore our neighbor’s front porch!

This sort of “switch-flipping” became her trademark, especially when suddenly deciding to gorge on food after hours of what we call “schnubs” (borrowing from the “Mutts” comic strip). I’m repeatedly musing aloud, “I wonder what goes through her head.”

To which our younger son once remarked: “Not much.”

He was not wrong.

As upbeat and lovable as this dog is, there’s a notable absence of thought-process — highlighted by one episode in which I had to back my car out into the driveway, and she insisted on a ride (one of her many “favorite things”). After resting calmly in the back seat for five minutes while I filled tires, she returned to the garage perfectly content with a drive that covered all of 30 feet.

We also learned that despite her uncertain provenance, Rita had been trained. She knew basic commands like “Come,” “Gimme a kiss” and even “Acuestate” (Spanish for “go lie down” — pronounced uh-KWESS-tuh-tay).

She can catch food in mid-air, and she’s quick at “zoomies” — though she somehow finishes all rough-housing by leaping on a couch and clawing fiendishly at the fabric; God knows who trained her to do that!

Nonetheless, since we’re empty-nesters with no grandchildren, Rita pretty much hit the jackpot: two doting owners who would spoil her like the daughter they never had.

I guess we hit the jackpot too.