You Had Me at Woof: How Dogs Taught Me the Secrets of Happiness by Julie Klam Page A

terriers, I had a lot of insight to offer, and could highly recommend them as city dogs. I felt particularly connected to the applicants who’d seen a dog on our website and were applying for them. Many times a photo that gets to someone triggers something. It’s like the way I want to take every dog whose eyes are bulgy and go in different directions. My cousin Mandi, who is a veterinary technician and has worked in many shelters, cautions against picking a dog who looks like a dog who has died, because of course it’s not that dog and she feels like the owners can become disappointed when they see that. Her mother had a beloved English bulldog who passed away and was followed by another one who looked like the first one but was not. She actually hated the new one, and true to her prediction, it outlived her. But having taken Beatrice on the heels of Otto and knowing they were nothing alike and still being okay about it, I wasn’t so sure. I definitely agreed with keeping expectations realistic. I also knew people who would get the same breed of dog over and over and keep naming them the same thing (Sparky 1, Sparky 2, Sparky 3) and it didn’t seem to bother them (though I can’t speak for the Sparkys).
    I’d been busy with work and not paying as much attention to the list as normal when I got a call on my cell phone while I was at the gym. It was about ninety-five degrees outside and I had to dry off repeatedly to hear the message. It was Sheryl and she said it was urgent.
    I called her back and she boiled down the story. There was a woman with a found Boston in the West Village who was going to dump the dog in the city pound if someone didn’t get him TO-DAY. Violet was with a babysitter so I used the opportunity to get the dog (someone in Pennsylvania was set to foster but she couldn’t pick up the dog immediately). Sheryl said I should call Joy, the volunteer in Pennsylvania, because she’d been in touch with the woman. I called her as I started to walk. I didn’t know Joy, but after two minutes I felt like I’d known and loved her my whole life. She’s from the Deep South and she works as a psychiatric nurse.
    “Okay, you ready, Julie?” she asked, took a deep breath, and said, “So last week Sheryl gets a call from this woman saying a guy in her office found this nice Boston in New Jersey and he was going to keep him, but his mother wouldn’t let him. Now I don’t know why this guy lives with his mother but, anyway, he took the dog into the city and gave her to the woman. I talked to her myself and told her I’d meet her anywhere, but not in New York City because I’m afraid to drive there. So she told me she’d be going out to the Hamptons for the weekend and she’d bring the dog halfway and meet up with Cindy [another volunteer], and then right before this was supposed to take place, she canceled because she didn’t have a ride. So I talked to Sheryl and she said tell her to take a car service and we will pay for it, but she wouldn’t, so then I get a call from her today saying, ‘You have to take him now or I’m bringing him to the pound.’ So that’s where you come in.”
    I took everyone’s phone numbers and called the woman, whose name was Coco, and asked her if she could bring the dog to me. She told me she didn’t have money for that (but she did have money to take the dog to the pound, which was farther?). I asked for her address and told her I could jump on the subway and be right there. She said I should just meet her at the West Fourth Street basketball courts, which I knew from my NYU days.
    I arrived within twenty minutes and waited for her to come. I watched for her to show up from all directions and saw a very thin young woman wearing a black slip, black stiletto heels, and Victoria Beckham-type sunglasses. She seemed nice, definitely on drugs, but at least she was a dog lover.
    Immediately she apologized for not being able to bring the dog, whom she’d named Mr. Man, up to