Yuen: As a dog owner, can you have more than one love of your life?

For those of you who've been there, please tell me this: Can you ever get over the loss of your first dog? How do you know if your heart is ready for another?

It's been nearly six years since our red Rhodesian Ridgeback passed away. I refuse to eulogize him, as Memphis was complicated. He could be ornery, sometimes aggressive. He distrusted strangers who rang the doorbell, from delivery men to friends who wore hats.

He counter-surfed indiscriminately and wolfed down food as if he feared he would never be fed again. Once I came home from work, stunned to find he had torn into a childproof bottle of women's multivitamins. The floor told the story like an unsophisticated crime scene: My eyes darted from the bottle crushed with giant teeth imprints, to a trail of pills, and finally to a puddle of neon yellow vomit. (Memphis was OK, and that's not how he died.)

I say all this to underscore that my dog was flawed. But he was the dog love of my life.

There are a million reasons not to get a new puppy, especially if you value a good night's sleep, going on trips, or having intact furniture. I don't miss having a dog, I've told people over the years. I just miss Memphis.

Lately, though, I've had some feelings. Every now and then, a terrier mix sitting nicely on a sidewalk patio or a cousin's professorial-looking chocolate Labradoodle will unearth a softness inside me.

Like a divorcée barely dipping her toe into dating apps, for many months I've casually scrolled through the pictures of "adoptable dogs" on rescue sites. My sons have been begging for a puppy for years, and I promised we'd start looking.

Last week one online listing stopped me cold. He was a hound mix with oversized ears and a red coat, with forehead wrinkles atop his hazel-amber eyes. He looked just like Memphis the day we brought him home.

The first time we became dog owners, my husband and I were unmarried, unencumbered 20-somethings with no kids. In fact, we named our dog Memphis James because my husband always dreamed that he'd give that name to his firstborn son.

As parents do, we taught Memphis how to swim. We brought him camping and canoeing. He made us laugh every day; watching him chase his tail or join us in a group howl never got old.

And as we did start to have children, Memphis soldiered on, tolerant of overbearing hugs and senseless caterwauling. That's what family dogs do: They accept that their roles may change over time. They make space. They continue to love.

It defies logic that we bring pets into our lives, knowing that when they leave us, we'll be in a world of hurt. As Memphis grew old and weak, he was no longer going on walks. He started to lose control of his bladder. He wasn't even enjoying the great love of his life: food.

Over my career in journalism, I've interviewed refugees of civil war and parents of murder victims. To admit that losing my dog was one of the saddest things that has ever happened to me is to admit I've enjoyed a life of colossal privilege.

On Memphis' last day, we treated him to a final car ride with the windows down. His nostrils flitted in recognition of the familiar woods and lakes that he used to blissfully explore. In that moment, there was no sign of suffering. When you see your dog come to life like this, you question how you can be so cruel as to put your best friend down.

So when I glimpsed the picture last week of the red hound rescue puppy with the floppy ears, my heart grew three sizes.

That night, the puppy and his brother, a sweetie with soulful dark eyes and a funny gait, visited our home. Their foster mom patiently answered all of our questions. It had been nearly two decades since we took in Memphis, and I had forgotten about the squirrelly energy of puppies, the sharpness of their tiny teeth. My husband and I are no longer young. Were we ready for this?

We learned that the red pup with the hazel eyes would be going to a family who apparently was just as smitten as we were.

His brother was available, but we were unsure. He had survived a deadly canine virus and was still experiencing the effects of rickets, a rare bone disease usually caused by a lack of vitamin D. With enough sunlight and a proper diet, this true underdog could overcome it and be 100% fine. Or he could suffer from early-onset arthritis and other ongoing ailments.

A vet we consulted through a friend said she could offer no prediction of the kind of life he'd lead. "Adopting him would be a leap of faith," she said.

When I spoke to Dr. Jody Lulich last year, an author and University of Minnesota veterinarian, we tearfully talked about the perils of getting close to our pets. He reminded me that somehow, people do it over and over.

"To be able to go through that loss and then still have a big enough heart to accept another one, knowing that you may go through that loss again, says not only a good thing about pets, but also about the people who really love pets," he told me.

So, I'm torn on this puppy. I decided to pause for a few days and not rush into anything. Sure, adopting him would be a leap of faith, not knowing if he'll be healthy. But it would also be a leap of faith in me.

"One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets himself be tamed," wrote Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.

For animal lovers, we are ones who are tamed. The marvel of being human is that we would willingly, even joyfully, agree to do it again.