According to surveys of pet owners, people who buy pets from breeders tend to say they chose their pet based on research and specific criteria. They credit their own careful decision-making. People who rescue, however, tend to say that their pet chose them. They often credit fate for putting them together, or feel that their connection was simply "meant to be."
I know which category I fall into. I wasn't looking for a cat when a stray kitten moved into my life. She chose me, so I loved her for the rest of her life. And when my Beagle Porter showed up, catatonic and traumatized from abuse, I knew I had to take him in. He needed me. I would soon find out that I needed him, too.
When he so sadly passed away, I didn't surf the web for a new pet. I waited for a couple months, then put out the word that I needed a dog. In the great cityscape of life, I turned my taxi cab's light on: I was available.
After a few days, I got a Facebook message about a Beagle who'd bounced from shelter to shelter, named Abigail. I said I'd come get her. And that was how I found my shadow, my 19-pound soulmate. Though my time with Porter had been cut tragically short, his untimely passing suddenly seemed to make some sense. If I hadn't lost him, then I wouldn't have met Abigail, the fiercely loving little girl who adored me at first sight, and who seemed destined to be mine.
Abigail was my best friend and constant companion. Losing her four years later was devastating. Once again, I needed a dog. But as I surfed PetFinder.com, crying harder with every click, I felt paralyzed. I wanted all of the dogs, and my husband wanted none of them. How was I supposed to know which of them was my dog?
I was stuck in traffic one night when I mindlessly picked up my phone. I thumbed through Facebook for a second and landed on a brown dog. His family couldn't keep him anymore, so one of my friends was trying to find him a home.
"Okay, fine," I thought. I'd been hoping for another Beagle, but really, I just wanted a dog. Any dog. And that dog needed someone to love him. Who was I to get in the way? By the time the light turned green, I'd decided he could come live with me.
My husband gave in, and a few days later, the dog's owner dropped him off at our house. I accepted the leash and felt my heart sink. Abigail had been my babydoll, happy to be dressed in tiny pajamas and tucked into bed beside me. This dog was big, rough, and seemed to be made of solid muscle. He nearly pulled my arm out of its socket when I walked him, and he scaled our couch in a single bound. This wasn't my kind of dog at all. He slinked around our house, anxious and confused as a caged zoo animal, while I wept for my Abigail.
But we named him Ralphie, and we doted on him. Because that's how it works.
That was 10 months ago. Today, Ralphie is my dog.
He wakes up happy, usually sprawled across my husband and me in bed. Ralphie loves his morning walk as much as I do, so we shake off our sleep and head into the morning light. He's so strong and so eager to gallop, I sometimes feel like I could just hold on to his leash, pick up my feet, and sail through the air behind him. But instead, he pulls me breathlessly along the sidewalk, exploring our neighborhood, meeting dogs, and enjoying being outside together.
As the pandemic keeps me close to home, Ralphie has become my sweet shadow. He knows my routine, napping beside me till lunch, then sweetly interrupting me for his noon walk. He brings me toys, he body slams me when he can't decide whether he wants to play or snuggle, and he lives to please me. He makes up new ways to communicate with me every day. And he'll parade around my bedroom with a toy in his mouth for no other purpose than to make me laugh.
There's a famous quote: "Everyone thinks they have the best dog in the world. And none of them are wrong." I knew I'd fall in love with any dog I picked.
But I'm sure glad I ended up with my Ralph.
