Winning the Heart of a Reluctant Dog: A Book Excerpt

The mutt was stubborn, angry, and a little bit nuts. So why did I fall in love with him?
From Come Back, Como

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Come Back, Como: Winning the Heart of a Reluctant Dog

"What do you think of this dog?" my wife, Sally, asked one September afternoon as she sat at the computer.

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 mix 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 animal shelter's website. "He weighs 12 pounds. His shots are up-to-date. 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-year-old 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 semidivine beings, and two adults whose flexible work schedules as a college teacher (Sally) and a journalist (me) facilitated regular walks and lots of attention—our past attempts to adopt other dogs hadn't worked. They were either too big or too yippy 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.

We picked up Phoebe after school and drove to the shelter. "What does he look like?" she asked. "How big is he? What kind of terrier?"

Sally and I glanced at each other. We had no idea.

"He's a mutt," I said. "The best of all breeds."

At the shelter, a young staffer named Katarina led us through a barking, howling maze of animals, stopping in a dark corner. "Isn't he adorable?" she said.

A white mass of hair writhed against the fence; his claws dug at the floor. Scrawny would have been a compliment. With a little less fur, the dog could have passed for a large, emaciated rodent.

When the staffer called him, Gandalf charged at us and began leaping at the fence—once, twice, eight times. Sally and I stepped back, but Phoebe didn't flinch. She watched calmly as the dog continued his trampoline act. "Why does he do that?" she asked.

"He's excited to see you," said Katarina. "Do you want to meet him?"

"Yes," said our fearless daughter.

"Wait. Are you sure it's okay?" I asked. I'd seen sharp canine teeth during some of those leaps.

"Dad," said Phoebe.

"Steven," said Sally.

Even Katarina, who didn't know me, raised her eyebrows.

"Oh, all right."

Katarina took Gandalf into the visiting room. When she let him loose, the dog sprinted around frantically and then hid under a desk.

"Terriers do that," Katarina said calmly. "They like to tunnel into things. It's their hunting instinct."

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