It's an old story.  You walk in out of curiosity.  You're not looking for company.  You're not thinking, at least won't admit to thinking, of going home with anyone.  But those eyes.  Smoldering, inviting, pleading.  The next thing you know, it's closing time, you're in the car, and all either of you wants is time alone for some heavy petting.  

As hook-ups go, it's been good for both of us even though she has bad table manners, snores like a stevedore sleeping off a two-day bender, and eats deer droppings like they were M&M's.  But here I am, in love with a dog named Cat.

Nearly four months earlier, she had dragged one of her former owners across the parking lot and into the front door of the Humane Society.  Cat had been a shared dog in a relationship that was no longer on.  The desperate young woman was pregnant and had more pressing concerns than a barely trained, energetic black and brindle dervish.  She signed the dog over and left without looking back.  

The next day, her no-longer-significant-other called the shelter to angrily demand his dog back.  It was his name on the chip information, and the shelter invited him to come retrieve his dog.  He said he'd be there the next day.  

That was three and a half months before I stepped into the same doorway Cat had dragged the lady through, looking for a pit bull companion for my friend, former boss, and teaching mentor Carolyn Tripp.  Carolyn was searching for a replacement for a dog that won't ever be replaced, a tawny pit bull with compelling eyes of her own.  Except hers were more like those of the lug checking ID's at a tony club.  With Savvy, the rest of the world was guilty until proven innocent...though forever under surveillance.  

Savvy served as chief of security, cat wrangler, bed warmer, and trusted confidante at Farshadow Farms. When Carolyn lost her, the hole Savvy left simply couldn't be filled.  There would be other dogs - a troubled bob-tailed wash-out from the local prison dog obedience program named Ivy, and a galumphing reputed shar pei/retriever (!) cross aptly named Gumbo.  But Carolyn had been owned by pit bull terriers much of her adult life.  Like our Peruvian horses, of whom it's said, "They are most like horses," the pit bulls Carolyn had known were "most like dogs."  But they are different in ways that those who love them simply don't want to ever be without...and that's why we were on the search.

I visited Cat several times over the period of two weeks, taking her into the adoption room to get acquainted, taking her on short walks that gradually became less and less brutal as she realized that I wasn't interested in the Nantucket Sleigh Rides she'd given her previous owners. I looked at the other pit bulls in residence, liked them, took their pictures...and all the time, my back itched, feeling eyes on me from down the aisle.  Every time I turned, there was Cat on the qui vivre, shouldering her cellmate aside so she could press against the gate to see what I was doing.  Finally, I told Carolyn I thought this dog was a worthy heir, and we made arrangements for me to take Cat down to meet Gumbo and Ivy.

Both of us were concerned at how Ivy would respond.  Neither of us ever dreamed that on the appointed day, no matter how we introduced the Cat to big, happy-go-lucky, we-are-the-world Gumbo...it was a no go.  He raised his hackles, something Carolyn had never seen.  He growled, something Carolyn had never heard.  And though Cat was fine with him and desperately wanted to play, Gumbo absolutely wasn't having any of it.

I was dumbfounded.  Carolyn was apologetic.  Cat shrugged it off and jumped back into the red truck headed back to Junction City.

Our humane society has a grace period, when dogs that don't work out can be returned.  The shelter was on the way back to the farm.  Cat Ballou sat high in the passenger seat, clipped into her seat belt, while I drove back north.  We'd have to hustle to the shelter before it closed.

I was searching up and down the satellite dial, when I felt those eyes again.  I turned and looked squarely into the face of this interesting, confident dog that seemed to be able to slip whatever punch life threw at her. 

I turned off the highway at Logan.  The shelter would open tomorrow at 11.  

You know...in case Cat and I wanted to drop off a donation.