The Dog of My Dreams

It started with a dream. My husband and I had just lost our 9-year-old black lab, and I was still in the "I never want another dog again" phase. We had adopted Mindy from our local shelter when she was 2 years old; we got her the day we got back from our honeymoon. We treated her like our child. When she was 4 years old, she was diagnosed with diabetes. I had to schedule the next 5 years of my life around her twice-a-day insulin shots. My parents' home became a doggy daycare whenever my husband and I had to go anywhere. Throughout it all, Mindy remained the sweetest creature I had ever known. When she died, I felt like part of me went with her, and I swore I wouldn't put myself through that again.

The night after she died, I had a dream about her. She was in our backyard with another black dog who only had one ear. One of my friends was convinced that meant I was going to end up with a dog who was missing a body part. She told me she would keep an eye out for a three-legged dog. I laughed.

A few days later, I went on a local animal rescue's webpage to see if they could accept diabetic supply donations. Right on their homepage was a picture of a black dog. With one ear. I reminded myself that I didn't want another dog, closed the website, and slammed my laptop shut. My resolve lasted until my husband got home from work. I showed him the picture and called to make an appointment to meet the dog the following day.

She was a 70-pound black pit bull mix named Tinkerbelle. She was a rescued bait dog and someone had sliced off her left ear, but she had been living with a family for nearly a year and seemed friendly and social. They needed to find her a new home because she didn't get along with Beau, their German shepherd. She scared poor Beau to the point that he broke through their bay window to escape her. The rescue group noted she would need to be the only dog in the home, which was fine with me.

We arrived for our meet-and-greet with Tinkerbelle. She broke out of her leash, ignored my husband, and jumped at me with enough force to knock me over. This should have scared me off, but she was really cute. My husband told the woman we would have to think it over. I told him there was nothing to think about. Tinkerbelle was my dog.

The first thing I did was rename her. Tinkerbelle didn't fit her bully personality. I started calling her Inky instead. I took her to meet my parents, and she promptly jumped over their 4-foot fence to introduce herself to the dog next door. He did not seem amused. As I wrestled her home, I lost my engagement ring somewhere in my parents' backyard, which was covered with about a foot of snow. I cried the whole way back to my house, wondering if my family doctor would prescribe Xanax for dog-induced trauma. I told Inky she was the worst dog in the world. She licked my nose in response, though, so I decided she could stay. My dad found my ring with a metal detector three months later, so all was well.

Inky's temperament never really changed, but I knew it wasn't her fault. Her experience as a bait dog left her physically and mentally scarred; she wasn't comfortable around other dogs. Over time I realized I couldn't blame her: dogs might be our best friends, but they aren't capable of rational thought. I learned not to expose Inky to situations that overwhelmed her. She trained me well.

Adopting Inky ended up being one of the best decisions I ever made. She eventually learned to walk nicely on a leash and stopped trying to immediately attack every other dog she saw, though she never did learn to like the mail carrier or the UPS guy. She was fiercely protective of me, and I always felt safe with her around. It was clear she had chosen me as her person, and when I was laid off from my job and then started working from home, she became my constant, 24-hour-a-day companion. On days when I didn't want to get out of bed, she made sure to let me know that she needed a walk, and sulking was not permitted in her world. She truly was a lifesaver.

Inky was almost 10 years old when I noticed she was limping slightly, and when I looked at her left front leg, I could see a small lump. My husband and I took her to the vet the following day and our worst fears were confirmed: Inky had osteosarcoma. Bone cancer. After a long discussion with the vet, we decided Inky wasn't a good candidate for a leg amputation; the best thing we could do for her was to take her home and make sure she was happy and pain-free for whatever amount of time she had left.

We were given two different pain medications for her, and she remained her feisty self, refusing to let a little thing like a rapidly growing bone tumor slow her down. She continued to let the mail carrier know that he wasn't welcome on our porch, and would still wiggle excitedly whenever she heard my parents' car pull up out front, knowing they were bringing her chicken and other goodies.

We got to have one last Christmas with her; she unwrapped her own presents and immediately shredded half her new toys. About a week into the new year, she started showing signs that her pain level was increasing. Although she still insisted on patrolling the backyard to make sure no other dogs dared to come near, she was slowing down. My husband and I knew it was almost time.

It was one of the hardest decisions we ever had to make. We didn't want to cut her life short if she was still enjoying it, but we didn't want to wait too long and force her to live in pain. She let us know when she was ready. When the vet came to the house, Inky tried to charge the door and bark like she always did when someone new tried to enter, but she let out a small yelp of pain while she did it. We knew we had made the right decision.

The first few days without Inky were terrible. Once my husband left for work each morning, the house seemed empty and way too quiet. It wasn't too long before we found ourselves at the animal shelter, looking at dogs. We considered a couple of them, but none of them seemed right and we returned home without a new companion. The next day, while my husband was at work, my mom and I took another ride to the shelter. Again, none of the dogs seemed right for me.

As we were on our way out, I spotted a scared-looking pit bull quietly peering out of her cage. She had been at the shelter for a month but had been out of her kennel when I was at the shelter the previous day. I asked if I could see her, and one of the volunteers escorted my mom and me into a visiting room and left to get the pup they called Baby Girl. As soon as he brought her into the room, she broke away from him, bypassed my mother, and knocked me down onto the floor. The attendant appeared mortified and apologized profusely, but all I felt was an odd sense of déjà vu. It was exactly what Inky had done. This was my dog.

I left the shelter with Baby Girl that day, although I immediately decided that her name was going to be Diva. She's nothing like Inky, though they share a similar background. She was rescued from a dogfighting ring and has scars and broken teeth to prove it. Despite this, she's submissive, friendly to strangers, and playful with other dogs. She loves nothing more than to take long walks and cuddle on the couch – and she loves me just as much as Inky did. I may not have dreamed about Diva beforehand, but I like to think that Inky picked her out for me anyway.