“Puppy, puppy, puppy!”

I was walking through the Boston Common one pleasant late-October evening, on route from the Charles MGH T stop to the South End Animal Rescue League (the ARL, for those in the know) when the text that would unknowingly, but ultimately, change my life chimed onto my cell phone.

My one word response to my husband who sent the text from the ARL summed up our next four years with our soon to be pooch, “Yay!”

Like many Midwestern kids, I grew up with a family dog. Her name was Suzy, and we affectionately called her an American Shaggy, i.e., she was a purebred mutt.

I was only four or five when she came into our lives, but I still remember the day my father came through the door with her in his arms, a floppy bundle of mostly white, most likely to mat, fur. She bolted straight into the family room where we kids waited, and the family room was her domain henceforth.

Suzy is the reason I will only rescue dogs. Before I was born, my parents bought a purebred Maltese named Princess. Within months, maybe even weeks, the expensive pup squeezed under the fence and was never heard from again.  One expensive runaway later and my parents switched to pound puppies.

As my parents tell the story, when their arrived at the pound, Suzy was cowering in the corner of the cage she shared with a much larger dog. It was 1976; I shudder to think what downriver Michigan dog pounds were like at that point in time. My parents couldn’t leave the frightened pup in the pound and, decades later, I understand why.

Suzy was loyal, friendly, motherly, everything you could possible want in a dog. She is also the reason I adore smaller dogs. Suzy topped out at 20 pounds and, honestly, I probably remember her being that big only because I was so small at the time.

Suzy came into our lives when I was five, and it wasn’t until my freshman year in college that she lost her battle with cancer and my parents put her to sleep. My mom delivered the news as we drove home from the airport after my freshman year, trying to make me understand that they didn’t want to distract me while I was in the midst of finals. I donned my sunglasses and stared out the passenger side window, willing myself not to cry too hard in front of my mother. To this day, when I go for a jog near my parent’s house, I still look over at the fence where Suzy used to wait patiently for me to return so we could take our post-run walk together.

As I cruised (albeit, slowly) into adulthood, I dreamed of getting a dog, but the task always felt so daunting. I don’t have kids, never will, which makes getting a dog one of the biggest leap of responsibility I will likely ever take.

Fast forward to a couple of days before the famous text.

It was Head of the Charles weekend, to be exact. Boston weather, as anyone who lives here knows, is predictable only in its unpredictability. The Head of the Charles Regatta falls in October, one of those months that can hit you with anything from buckets of snow to hurricane force winds to summer heat.

This particular year was glorious. Nick and I strolled down the Charles River in our short sleeve shirts, watching crews row down the river. On our way back to the tiny South End condo we shared, we thought, “Hey, let’s stop by the ARL and look at the dogs.”

Weeks before, we started to consider getting a dog and began dropping into the ARL, mere blocks from our condo. The ARL’s Boston Adoption Center was close and convenient and we figured, at some point, the right dog would appear.

Denial being one of my favorite modes of operation, I made no plans for when that day would actually arrive. This particular day, we found a variety of dogs hanging out in their cages, and became fascinated with a beautiful young brindle pit bull who looked out at us fondly.

Now, when I call our South End condo “tiny”, I mean tiny. Nick and I shared 550 square feet of space, and bringing a dog into that space seemed to scream, “Get something small”. (It helped that I tended towards small dogs, anyway.)

The year-old pit bull was gorgeous, and I’m not one to shy away from a bully breed, but taking on this particular dog seemed daunting. My head was playing out scenarios of our life with this pooch, and all I could come up with was, “Well, I’ll be in really good shape after all the running I’ll need to do to get this dog enough exercise.”

As we knelt by his cage, Nick cooing sweet words to the pit bull and me wondering how I’ll ever be able to run far enough, everything changed.

The door to the dog area swung open and in trotted a little black dog – later we learned that she was a Chiweenie and, actually, dark brown – wearing a bright red coat reading, “I’m up for adoption!”

As the volunteer lead the pup into her cage, the pooch looked over at us and, as I remember it, let out a huff and planted a look on her face that read, “I can’t believe they made me wear this thing.”  You could almost hear the disdain dripping from the look on her face.

You see, this glorious day happened to be the annual doggie Halloween parade through the South End. To put this in perspective, you should know a few things:

1. The South End loves its dogs. I don’t have the statistics, but I feel like there are more dogs in the South End than in any other neighborhood of Boston.
2. The people in the South End love to dress their dogs up for Halloween, or any day, for that matter. Again, I don’t have the statistics and I’ve never watched the parade, but I’ve seen the pictures and the costumes are astounding.
3. Lastly, this particular little black dog has never been fond of two things: socializing with other dogs and wearing clothes.

As my husband focused on the pit bull, I watched this little black dog walk up to her cage. “Oh, look at that one,” I tapped Nick on the arm and pointed at the little girl as the volunteer removed the coat and locked her away.

The pooch went to the back of her cage for a quick drink, then spun around and trotted back up to the bars. She looked right at us, got up on her hind legs, and leaned sideways onto the bars to present the maximum amount of pettable body.  The look in her eyes was unmistakable, “Get me the hell out of here!” If she had opposable thumbs, I swear she would have rattled the bars.

Smitten. That’s the only word for it. A volunteer let her out of her cage, snapped a leash on her, and Nick and I trotted the little pooch around the block for a test walk. Behind the ARL is a short stone wall and Nick sat down so we could spend some time with the little girl. His butt had barely touched the wall when she promptly and nimbly jumped up on the wall and plopped into his lap. We found our dog.

But, believe it or not, we didn’t take her home that day! Want to hear more, particularly how I ended up in tears at a local bar? Donate to my 2014 Boston Marathon fundraiser for the Animal Rescue League of Boston. Every time the money raised goes up $100, I’ll add a new chapter to the Zuni’s Diaries.

Sitting on laps was one of Zuni’s favorite past times.