FROM BLUE TO HOOLIGAN - AN ORIGIN STORY

When Robin reached out and said there was one boy puppy still available, I should have felt excited.

Instead, I got hit in the chest.

Not because there was anything wrong with him. Not because I did not want a boy. And not because he was not beautiful — because he was.

He was a lighter brindle with a little white patch on his chest and a sweet, thoughtful expression. In one of the videos, he was trying to balance himself on top of a giant yellow stuffed bear, slid off backwards, and fell over in a heap — all oversized paws and no understanding yet of gravity.

He was adorable.

That was not the problem.

The problem was that he was the blue boy.

Shamrock had been the blue boy in his litter. And the second I saw that collar, everything in me tightened — not sharp, not sudden, but deep. Familiar. The kind of feeling that doesn’t ask permission before it arrives.

My head said, It’s just a breeder collar. It means nothing.

My heart said something very different.

To my heart, blue did not mean puppy. Blue meant Shamrock.

It meant the beginning of one of the greatest loves of my life… and, because grief does not separate those things cleanly, it also meant the ending — still tender, still close enough to touch if I wasn’t careful.

But that wasn’t the only thing that hit me.

This wasn’t a moment of choosing.

With Shamrock, I chose. With Clover, I chose.

That has always been one of my gifts — I have an innate ability to “pick,” to recognize the right soul for our family. I trust that. I’ve always trusted that.

This didn’t feel like that.

This felt like: if you want a boy now… this is the one.

No choosing. Just… the only option, sitting quietly where choice should have been.

That hit first. Then the blue collar hit right after.

A one-two punch I didn’t see coming.

I showed Justin.

He immediately said maybe it was a sign from the universe… or maybe it was Shamrock sending a message that this was the right puppy.

I shut both of those down immediately.

I know he meant well. I know he was trying to help. But it had the opposite effect.

I didn’t want this to be a sign. I didn’t want it to be a message. And I didn’t want this puppy tied to Shamrock in that way.

He is not Shamrock. I don’t want him to be Shamrock.

He deserves to be himself — to arrive without weight that isn’t his, without meaning that belongs to another life.

So I didn’t respond.

I closed the message. I sat there thinking. Then I shut my computer down.

I waited.

Hours passed.

Eventually, I opened it back up, pulled up her message again… and just stared at it.

And that’s when the real back-and-forth started.

I made arguments for and against this puppy — quiet at first, then louder, circling the same ground.

I reminded myself that I had been waiting for a male puppy since we brought Clover home last April. We chose a girl on purpose. A black girl. The complete opposite of Shamrock. That was intentional. It was the exact right decision. I love and adore Clover.

But I still wanted a boy.

I had been thinking about him for a year — a shape in my mind before he ever existed, a space already made for him.

I had the name chosen long before blue collar boy came into existence.

So what was I really doing here?

Did I really want to wait another year and hope that the next litter had a male available? Could I wait?

This little potato wearing a blue collar looked adorable and sweet. Robin’s puppies are special. He will be special.

Do I want to pass on a special little soul because of my grief and fears? Am I being fair to him… or to myself?

Because what scared me most wasn’t the collar.

It was what I might do with it.

I didn’t want to have expectations about him because of that blue collar. I didn’t want to see him through Shamrock’s shadow — because shadows stretch, and they change things if you let them.

That would be unfair to him… and to me.

He deserved to arrive as himself.

Not as an echo. Not as a symbol. Not as something carrying meaning that wasn’t his.

So I went back and forth.

Would it be harder to say yes… or to pass on him?

That was the question that stayed — quiet, steady, waiting for an honest answer.

Because saying no wasn’t simple either.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, another thought pushed through — softer, but stronger than the rest:

I can’t let my fear stop me from loving again.

Even if that love came in a blue collar.

It’s just a color.

Just a color.

Something we put on them so we can tell them apart… not something meant to carry the weight of memory.

It doesn’t and shouldn’t mean anything.

And if I said yes… then we all needed to immediately start calling him Hooligan.

Not blue boy.

Not anymore.

As I was having these internal conversations — staring at that message from Robin — she started sending more pictures and videos.

Just him.

I watched each video. I looked at each picture in great detail. Multiple times.

This time, I tried to look past the collar.

I looked at him. The way he moved. The softness in him. The sweetness. The ridiculous determination of him trying to conquer that stuffed bear and losing the argument with gravity.

And somewhere in there, I opened my heart just a crack.

That’s all it took.

Because the next thing I knew… the decision was made.

Yes.

I watched myself type those three letters. Then I hesitated. I changed it.

“Yes, I would love to have him. Ty!”

I stared at it for a second… and hit send.

And once the message was sent… I felt it.

Not excitement. Not yet.

Relief.

Like something that had been held tight inside my chest had finally loosened its grip.

Robin answered right away.

He was mine.

Claimed.

Hooligan.

My new male puppy.

I smiled… and tears fell down my face.

Because I made a choice.

I could have said no. I could have passed. I could have asked if any girls were still available.

But I didn’t.

I looked at him — really looked at him — and I made a choice.

Just like with Shamrock. Just like with Clover.

Over the following weeks, Robin sent regular updates — pictures and videos.

She called him Hooligan. I called him Hooligan. Justin did. Friends and family did.

The name “blue collar boy” disappeared.

He was Hooligan.

My little Hooligan.

My little boy.

And slowly, as time passed, I started to get more excited.

Not forced. Not pushed.

It just came — quietly at first, then more easily, like something finding its way back.

I’m still nervous — but now it’s about the real things.

A new puppy. An adolescent wolfhound already in the house. Figuring out the dynamic. The normal chaos.

Not the collar.

That part is gone.

Because it’s not about that.

It was never really about that.

It’s about the soul wearing it.

In one week, we go get him.

Eleven weeks old.

Hooligan is coming home — not as a sign, not as a memory… just as himself.