Our backyard is a wreck. We’ve long ago concluded that it’s just not safe to run a riding mower out there. Riddled with camouflaged holes that could just about swallow a mower whole, or at least considerably maim it, the yard is not pretty. My dad has always said that you could either have a pretty yard or you could have dogs. We have dogs.

Our neighbors have pretty yards and I pity them the fun they’re missing. I’m sure they long for the same amount of pleasure we’re enjoying here in the jungle behind the chain link fence. If they would only ask, I could tell them exactly how to get where we are. I know they want to know.

I’d tell them that it usually begins with one.

For us, that was Frosty. You have to believe that all you need is one dog. That’s where you give the inch. Frosty was a stunning black and white border collie, short to the ground, with layers of fur and fat white feet. His soulful eyes insured forgiveness of any wrong and easily coerced apology for any slight. We brought him home when Jenn was 3 and Alli was a baby. He grew up with them, not knowing there was any choice but to let a toddler roll all over his back and dangle clover blossom necklaces around his neck.

He endured a lot of love before we decided he was lonely in that massive backyard. He had been with us for a year when we brought Jenna home. She was named for the heroine dog in the Balto movie that Jenn was crazy about. And it helped that they sort of shared the same name. She was Jenn’s short haired black and white border collie who immediately became Frosty’s companion and snappy soulmate.

And then there were two. We gave another inch.

Frosty was good natured and Jenna was edgy. We attempted to introduce another dog into the pack, but Jenna would have none of it. We quickly relocated the interloper into my parents’ back yard. They were overjoyed, I’m sure, but hid it well.

Those dogs trotted along on leashes at the park, tugged and cajoled and bossed by two preschoolers. Later, they rode in the backseat to pick up their charges at elementary school. Having just watched Puppy Bowl, Jenn decided to train short but hefty Frosty to jump hurdles. Compliant fellow that he was, he leaped as high as his peg legs would allow, pleasing her to no end, which of course pleased him to no end.

Jenna always slept on one side of the patio steps while Frosty occupied the other side. They fought a bit over food; it was always Jenna’s fault. They knew only each other.

Frosty grew terrified of thunderstorms, which became a bit of a problem when he broke out of the jungle one summer, disappearing into the night in a mad dash to outrun the storm. For days, we searched for him before giving up hope. Then the call came from the animal shelter that they had him. After the most recent thunderstorm, someone had dropped him off, probably learning the hard way that their newly adopted cuddly companion was a destructive terror when it thundered. Good for him. And I’m so glad he showed his darker side.

We repaired the fence and watched him more carefully and he grew old along with Jenna. Arthritis overtook him along with whatever else ails a fifteen-year-old dog, and one bright June day we lost him for good.

I don’t know whether it was age, or mourning, or just loneliness, but Jenna aged in a hurry. We seriously considered giving her a yard mate, but knew from experience that especially at her age, it wouldn’t end well. Two years later we lost her.

Amazingly, then there were none. And that just wouldn’t do.

Friends took pity on our predicament and gifted us with a retired Brittany spaniel and another border collie puppy. Finally, life returned and the sun came out and the digging began. Duchess mothered Tucker from their adjoining kennels and she bossed him all over that backyard.

You might think two is a perfect number, but I recalled the problem with losing one of a pair, so we resolved to go with an odd number of dogs if possible. And two is an even number. So that wouldn’t do, either.

As luck would have it, a family who rented a trailer at the farm were in the process of moving and had just brought home a puppy. The new four-legged tenant immediately took up with my husband, joining him under tractors for repair work and meeting him at the gate each day. She loved him before he loved her.

Her name was Rosie. The day she chased our pickup truck onto the highway, attempting to join the family that was not her own, was the day we made the decision. She had chosen us. With $50 in hand and a dog crate at the ready, we negotiated her purchase and whisked her home. And she’s been here ever since, sharing quarters with Tucker, and for a few years with Duchess.

And so there were three. Perfect.

He slowed the car along the roadside across from the farm, opened the passenger door, and shoved the little brown and white mutt out. Obediently, the puppy waited while the car drove away, trusting that her guy would return. Of course, he didn’t. My daughter, preparing to leave the farm, watched the process and proved she is her mother’s daughter by bringing the puppy home.

His name is Charlie and he is nowhere near a dog that we can identify. The vet guesses he is maybe a terrier mixed with pit bull mixed with something else, with a neck so nonexistent that we can’t even keep a collar on. A single bright brown Budha spot sits just off center on the top of his head, defining in sharp relief his droopy brown ears. And I swear he actually smiles while his rat tail wags furiously, in a perpetual comma punctuation mark over his back. He’s one of the lucky ones who never missed a meal and he’s not about to start now. He’s very thankful.

The inch we gave to Frosty had finally become a mile that included four dogs. And that’s how you do it. You just keep an open mind and an open heart, and above all you never plan or overanalyze. You don’t obsess over perfect grass and you never, ever, run in the yard if you value your ankles. Riding mowers are overrated and pushing a yard is great exercise.

Our menagerie now enjoys a joint kennel with a dog house that I can stand up in at its center. It’s actually embarrassingly insured as an outbuilding and I’ve convinced myself that if we’re ever without dogs, we can use it as a lawnmower shed. Like that’s ever going to happen.