AN ADOPTION STORY

Seems an unlikely match, a writer with a paper-eating, pen-chewing dog. It's an odd one to say the least.

We'd had our last dog, Bronte, for almost twelve years. I met the breeder at the Claude, Texas Dairy Queen where I immediately agreed the champagne poodle pup was exactly what we needed. She was a gift for my thirteen-year-old daughter, Shannon, but thirteen-year-old daughters grow up and go off to college and any pets that were "theirs" end up belonging more to the folks who are left behind. When I traveled she was my husband's, sitting in Jerry's recliner while he read or watched C.S.I. But when I was home, she was mine. She was my writing partner and joined me wherever my desk was that day--my office, my club chair, my bed. A year ago she grew especially clingy to me, never leaving my side, even for short trips to the coffeepot or bathroom. I guess she knew our time together was coming to an end.  Her passing was one of my hardest goodbyes. She'd been an easy dog, fitting right into our lives.

When she died we were in the process of moving. The next few months my life was filled with a busy travel event schedule and unpacking boxes at our new house. By Thanksgiving, the traveling had stopped and boxes were empty. My days remained busy getting ready for my daughter's visit then and again at Christmas.

The day after Christmas, my daughter returned home. The house had an eerie quiet. My editor had graciously given me a break on the deadline of my next book, but I couldn't focus. Something was missing. I grieved all over again for Bronte. I spent hours perusing dog sites, first looking for a poodle from a breeder, then searching for a poodle mix on the shelter sites. As if she knew my yearning, Shannon sent me a link to an animal rescue shelter dog with a comment, "She looks smaller than a standard." The description with the picture said she was a Standard Poodle.

Jerry had reservations about moving forward. "We're not large dog people," he said.

I urged him to give the picture another look. "She's seems small and she's already two years old."

Jerry studied the photo again. "Look at those long legs. She's bigger than Bronte was."

Despite that fact, somehow the next day we were in the car driving to McKinney to "take a look."

The foster mother asked us to wait in her garage while she fetched her. When she returned with the dog, two things were clear--she was not a standard (way too small, more like a mix) and she didn't want anything to do with us. Keeping her distance from us, she sniffed around the place. Jerry and I exchanged glances. What would we be in for?

When another dog allowed us to scratch his back and head, she came over and allowed us the same privilege. We were sold.

The entire way home, she didn't whine, bark, or whimper. She was probably thinking, What am I in for?

It is a good thing we don't know what life has in store for us. The next day I had buyers remorse. I realized I had been trying to replace Bronte, hoping to find a dog with the exact qualities. Every hour that passed seemed to make a point--this dog was nothing like Bronte. She was timid and though she seemed to be housebroken, she gave us no sign that indicated it was time "to do her business." Those first few days, I spent constantly going inside and out. We'd been told she was leash trained on a harness, but when we tried to use it, the harness was a foreign device to her.

The next morning, I called my aunt who'd adopted several dogs. "Try just using the collar," she said. A few steps outside our home, she flopped on the grass like deadweight. Apparently the foster mother had been mistaken about her being "leash trained."

I'm stubborn, too, I thought. I proceeded to move toward the road, only to result in dragging her. And then something happened, a gut-feeling idea so strong that I couldn't resist trying it. I knelt next to her and petted her head and her back. With a soothing tone, I said, "It's going to be okay. We're just going for a walk." I repeated, "It's okay, it's okay," as I continued to pet her for a good long while. Then I stood and began to walk. And she did too.

I don't know for certain why Georgie-Girl is in my life, but I have a hunch she's going to teach me a thing or two. I'm usually one that tires early from scratching heads and rubbing bellies, but I spend a lot of time doing that now. She is needy for affection. She's appealed to my gentle side and I like that part of me.

As of a few days ago, she loves our neighborhood walks. That's as victorious to me as writing a fine sentence. She's made me see the value in small achievements. I love to see her race around the yard in circles, her little ears flopping from the speed. If the opportunity arises, she loves to eat paper and chew on pens, but precautions can be made to avoid those occurrences. I'll be the first to admit, I'd expected an entirely different kind of dog. But even if I had the chance, I wouldn't turn back the hands of time. I like my life with days filled with some uncertainty. And with Georgy-Girl that's what you get.  But there are certainties, too. Like our morning walks, scratching time on the couch, and moments like this very one as I write with Georgy-Girl curled up at my feet.

We still don't know what we're in for. She's reserved her trust for a small circle--my husband and me. Yet somehow we know, we're the lucky ones.