Poptart carries himself like a man who once napped on the fainting couch in his own library and dined on the second-best silver in the cupboard. He is five years old, dressed permanently in a neat black-and-white tuxedo, and he walks on leash with the quiet dignity of someone who expects doors to be opened for him. And honestly, he’s not wrong. In his kennel he is polite but unmistakably dismayed, as if this whole arrangement is a clerical error that will soon be sorted out. He is easily handled, knows his commands, loves a good treat, and has the composed patience of a dog who has decided to endure this chapter without losing his dignity. Outside, he softens into a gentle, wiggly boy who enjoys long walks and thoughtful sniffing expeditions, greeting other dogs with civil interest rather than drama. He has done well in a home and in a crate, potties promptly, and generally behaves like someone who understands the social contract. If he hesitates at the kennel door, it is not rebellion — it is principle. Poptart is not for chaos; he is for someone who appreciates a steady, honorable companion whose affection, once earned, is as dependable as sunrise and considerably more handsome.