I came late to the dog party. My Depression-era parents preferred cats because cats can take care of themselves. My folks liked their kids that way, too: if it wasn’t on fire or bleeding, they didn’t want to know about it. 

That was OK by me, all of it: the cats, the fire, the taking care of myself. I was OK with not having a dog too, because on a cross-country bike ride at age 11, a German shepherd farm dog chased me. His snarls and snapping jaws put me off dogs for the next 40 years—because a dog can rip out your throat. Dogs slobber and grovel. They’re owned by “dog moms” and “dog dads.”

Fast-forward to 2006, when a friend asked me to dog-sit her Bichon Frise over the Fourth of July. Her dog was the same size as my cat—how much harm could it do?

Plenty, it turned out, because this dog was part worm—as in, he wormed his way into my heart with his puppy eyes and licking tongue and wagging tail. The dog was good (if alien) company. When Daisy went home, for the first time in my life, I wondered what it would be like to have a dog. So instead of avoiding dogs, I studied them. I took a dog-ownership aptitude test. I visited shelters. I registered with a rescue group.

I named my new, half-grown pup Homer. He was part Golden Retriever and part mystery meat, and he was my boon companion for ten years. Then, last December 19, Homer died. I could have skipped Christmas this year. I cried more over that dog than I’ve cried over humans who’ve passed on. I think it’s because Homer started each day with no baggage, no grudges, nothing in his heart but pure love.

A week after Christmas, I clicked up the same web site that had led me to Homer, Petfinder.com. “Golden Retriever,” I typed into the search engine. “Within 100 miles.”

I saw a face: black eyes and nose in a cream-colored face. I learned about a litter of pups and their mom found starving in the cold on a reservation. I filled out a questionnaire, prepped my home for inspection, and exchanged Emails with the pup’s foster mom, who agreed to start calling the pup “Elsa” because the dog reminded me of the lion cub in Born Free. I brought a scared little dog home from Hudson in the back of my SUV on the bitter night of January 23, the same day I started a new job. She howled all the way. In the morning, Elsa panicked when I crated her so I could go to work. (Parents who leave their babies with caregivers will understand.) Over the next few days, we worked out toileting and meal routines. I signed her up for play dates and obedience classes. Elsa learned basic behaviors: sit, go in your house, don’t eat the cat.

I learned that Elsa is a thinker. She studies her reflection: friend or foe? She’s a statue when she watches squirrels, men shoveling snow, safety patrol kids. She’s a tornado when she chases leaves. My dog pounces tennis balls into snowbanks so they’re more fun to find. Last night she fell asleep with her head on my foot and her paw on my ankle.

Yes, I am a dog mom, one of those Americans who spends $60 billion per year on their pets according to Fortune Magazine. I am somebody who hauls her dog to the park rain, shine, and ten below. I nod when Dave Barry says, “You can say any foolish thing to a dog, and the dog will give you a look that says, ‘Wow, you’re right! I never would’ve thought of that!’” I think of Homer and Elsa both when Josh Billings says, “A dog is the only thing that loves you more than he loves himself.”

Elsa and I came together because bad things happened to both of us, but we’ve moved forward with no baggage, no grudges, the only thing in our hearts something that might grow into the only thing worth having in the first place.

Delaney Green is the pen name of Debra Peterson of Eau Claire. She has published articles in Dramatics and A Second Opinion. She is the author of Playwriting: A Manual for Beginners. Her current project is a six-book historical fantasy.