We wandered into the ARL that Sunday with no inkling that we might actually bring home a dog. We were unprepared, un-supplied and, for me at least, totally in fear that I would suck as a puppy-momma. But, this little dog worked her way into our subconscious; in short time she would work her way into our hearts.

For now, though, we did what any commitment fearing couple who knew they were heading for the inevitable would do. We put off the decision. We put a hold on the little girl, so no one else could adopt her, and then headed home to decide what to do.

As I understand it, you can hold an animal for 24 hours at the ARL. As it turns out, though, the adoption offices are closed on Monday, so by placing the hold on Sunday we had until Tuesday to decide. I was torn between looking forward to bringing the pup home and hoping that, by walking away, I could forget about the little black dog; the latter motivated entirely by fear.

And so, Monday passed. After work, I wandered from the Central Square T stop to Atwoods to meet Nick for a beer and discuss our puppy-fate. To be honest, I was quite scared to own a dog; I’d had a rabbit during graduate school and still think I did a poor job raising her. I didn’t want to repeat my ignorance with a dog.

I downed my beer while Nick tried to convince me that he was sure I’d be a good puppy-momma . But, ultimately, he said, the choice was mine as to if and when we got a dog.

And then I thought of that little girl in her cage, leaning into the bars for attention, and I started to cry. Right there in the middle of the bar, I looked at Nick and sobbed out, “We have to save her!”

To his sincere credit, Nick pulled off concerned, without being mortified by my public breakdown. I’m sure, in his head he was thinking, “We have to get this dog or my wife may implode.”

To be fair, the little dog was perfectly safe. The ARL takes very good care of the animals in its charge. But, in my head, this little girl was never getting out unless we saved her. She had already been there for a couple of months, and had two strikes against her that might draw out her ARL stay even longer.

For one, she qualified as a senior dog. I hate that term. She was about seven years old at the time and I just don’t consider that as senior, particularly for a small dog. Secondly, she had congenital heart failure. At the time, the disease manifested itself as a heart mummer, but the ARL provided a disclaimer saying, basically, that there was no telling what the disease could turn into.

Thankfully, as a first-time adult dog owner, I was blissfully unaware of what either of those two things could mean.  Nick promised, after my eyes dried and nose stopped running, to call the ARL first thing on Tuesday and say that we would like to adopt the little dog.

Now, on prior visits to the ARL, we had seen dogs tagged as fasting before they went to their new furever homes. Again, ignorance being what it is, we assumed the little black dog would do the same. Imagine Nick’s surprise when he called the ARL and they said, “Great, when would you like to come pick her up?”

Um, uh, excuse me?

Nick scrambled over to Petco for puppy basics: bowls, a leash, food…things you might have thought we’d already picked up. You would be wrong. I’ve often taken a, “When fate presents itself, don’t hesitate. Act!” approach, and getting this dog was no different.

So, at last, we come back to the fateful “Puppy” text.

While I made my way through the park to the ARL, Nick filled out forms and had the little girl microchipped, which required that we give her a name.

Um, uh, excuse me?

We didn’t have a name picked out; we just knew we didn’t want to keep the one she had. She was apparently surrendered by an older woman who could no longer care for her, and that woman had given her the name Missy. Nick would let me get a little dog, but there was no way he was walking a little dog named Missy around the South End.

But, Missy it was, until we came up with something better. I got to the ARL as they were wrapping things up. Typically, they provide a collar and bag of food for new owners. As it turned out, most of the dogs they had at the time were much larger than Missy. So they apologetically placed a thick, heavy collar around her neck, handed us a bag of large kibble, and sent us happily on our way.

Holy crap, we have a dog!

The shock and giddiness didn’t wear off as we walked to her new home with her too-large collar hanging on her neck and bag of too-large kibble in our hands. She trotted along with her tail held high right up until we arrived at the three steps that lead into our tiny condo. Suddenly, she put on the brakes at the stoop and looked at us as if to say, “What? Are you kidding? I’m not going in there!”

We coaxed her inside the front door, then through the inner door and down the stairs to our garden level apartment (Boston speak for, “Yes, I live in the basement.”) She was leery, but seemed to understand that we were now the key to her existence.

We showered her with love and took a ton of photos, not really knowing what else to do at this time. So, instead, we did what we normally do and set up the house to watch a movie.

I say “set up” because, at the time, we watched movies on a small computer screen, which required us to 1) spin the loveseat 90 degrees to face the screen and 2) move it closer in if we wanted a prayer of seeing anything. Nick and I snuggled on the loveseat, with Missy looking up at us, a little lost and confused.

As the fall evening chill approached, I grabbed the Easter-colored afghan that my grandmother knitted for me years ago. That triggered the first indicator that Missy really did belong to an older woman. She perked right up at the sight of the afghan, her ears springing into a position we would come to know so well.

She then jumped up on the couch, and, without asking permission or giving us a second thought, quickly and deftly burrowed under the covers. Nick and I watched and giggled in amazement.

Suddenly, Missy was home.

But, how did her name become Zuni? To find out, 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.

Zuni swaddled in her favorite blanket!