Dog trouble

 

A swarm of dull-white fur, two dark eyes and a bulbous nose popped into view. The dog’s neck jutted forward. He looked ready to bolt.

 

“Where are his ears?” I asked.

 

“Right there,” said Sally, indicating the tangled top of his head. “I guess.”

 

The terrier cross had a shaggy crown that shot straight up, and a long fringe over one eye.

 

“He’s a year old and house-trained,” Sally said, reading from the local animalshelter’s website. “He weighs 12 pounds (5.4kg). His shots are up-todate. His name’s Gandalf.”

 

“Gandalf. Isn’t he the wizard in The Lord of the Rings?”

 

“Stop stalling,” said Sally. “I think he’s cute.”

 

From the time Phoebe, our 12-yearold daughter, had started talking, she’d been campaigning for a dog. As much as we’d wanted to rescue a shelter dog – and give it a fenced yard, proximity to Golden Gate Park, a young companion who regarded dogs as semi-divine beings, and two adults whose flexible work schedules as a university lecturer (Sally) and a journalist (me) facilitated regular walks and lots of attention – our past attempts to adopt dogs hadn’t worked. They were either too big or too yappy or too much

like the temperamental family dogs Sally and I had each had as children.

 

Looking at this one, I tried to imagine him living with us, getting bathed by us (which he badly needed), and

curling up with our daughter.

 

I couldn’t see it.

 

But I knew what the answer was.

 

I knew what I had to do.

 

“All right,” I said.