That was just the beginning

It was an icy January morning, and I was walking to East Harlem to adopt a dog. With every step, I wondered why.

I had long dreamed of owning a dog but constantly found reasons for not doing so. I knew there was a city animal shelter exactly 17 blocks north of my apartment, and I had always imagined myself one day taking that walk and bringing home a dog.

But now that I was finally doing it, I was filled with doubts.

It's so much work, I worried. It totally changes your life. And how do you choose a dog by just looking at it in a cage? What if it turns out to be nasty or indifferent or rude? What if it ruins your home, scares your neighbors, alienates your friends?

This is only your first visit, I told myself as I walked. You probably won't see the right dog. Any kind of commitment is likely months away.

Strengthened by these thoughts, I pushed on.

I wasn't alone when I reached the shelter. A little group of pet seekers had assembled in the lobby. Nervously, we exchanged names and information. Many of us were first-timers, but some were shelter veterans, back to adopt another pet and full of advice for the rest of us.

"Relax, you'll know the right one when you see it," an older woman named Madeline assured me. "This will be my fourth, and it was that way each time."

Next thing I knew, we were by the cages. Dogs barked wildly, sticking their paws through the wires, begging for homes. I could barely think straight.

I tried to scan the cages. Small, I told myself. Small was essential, given the dimensions of my apartment. I read the little information placards on the front of each cage. I saw German Shepherd mixes, Rottweiler mixes, Labrador retriever mixes.

They were beautiful; they were perfect – but they were large, and they weren't my dog.

I felt sad, but also a bit relieved. My dog wasn't here today. I'd have to come back another time.

I saw that Madeline had scooped up a black-and-white bundle of fur. Her face glowed with joy as a dog of unknown breed chirped happily in her arms. How quickly could she bring it home, she asked the attendant.

I wandered closer, wanting to share in her happiness for a moment.

That's when I saw a small black dog, hiding scared at the back of her cage. Earlier, I had walked right past this little female, somehow dismissing her on sight.

This time I stuck my hand through the wires. Her tail wagged tentatively, but she continued to hang back.

I glanced at the identifying sign. "Male, five months, German Shepherd mix," it read. That seemed odd.

"Could there be a mistake on this?" I asked the man helping Madeline. "I don't think she's a male or a German Shepherd."

"Yeah, it could be," he said. "Could you stand here for a moment while I check?"

He disappeared. I turned back to the cage and called, "Here, Sheba." I don't know why I said "Sheba." It was just the way she looked.

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