The gift which I am sending you is called a dog, and is in fact the most precious and valuable possession of mankind.
~Theodorus Gaza

“You’re telling me what?” my husband Chris said, half-distracted as he rang up a customer at his shop.

“I found our next dog. Can you take off work this Saturday?”

“It’s my busiest day.”

“Satchie told me we have to get this dog.”

Satchie was our first dog, a Shar-Pei of Westminster lineage. She had died a year ago, and the sorrow was still palpable. Chris didn’t even question the fact that I was communicating with her from the Great Beyond. I had spoken with most of our dearly departed loved ones, furry or otherwise.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll do what I can.”

We had Satchie for twelve years, or more accurately, she had us. We became her dedicated servants, feeding her homemade food, taking her for long hikes, and showering her with as much love as she could bear. She was my first baby, but a year after we brought her home I was pregnant. I was labeled high risk and sent to bed for five months with complications. Satchie sat vigil on the edge of my bed, just out of reach, but always watching over me.

Ten years later, she stood in the hallway, peering into the kitchen where Chris and I were chatting. Chris, whom Satchie had wrapped around her little paw, walked over to massage her neck and belly. In an instant, the expression on his face changed. Underneath her wrinkles, he had felt tumors. It was lymphoma. We spent our savings and countless hours on her care, giving up weddings, travel, and time from our careers. When she could no longer walk more than a few steps and began refusing food, we knew it was time to let her go.

She died in my arms at the vet as I sang her the alphabet, her favorite bedtime tune. Steeped in grief, I felt no sign of her after she passed. And then a few weeks later, it started. She would come running up to me in my dreams, her tongue wagging, drool sliding down her chops, as I kneeled to meet her. She buried her head in my chest as I rubbed her ears, and then, as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone, leaping like a doe across a lush meadow.

A year after she passed, I had a different kind of dream. Satchie was cuddling a male, brown Lab puppy. I asked her, “Why are you cuddling a dog? You don’t like to cuddle.” She responded, “He is not as smart as I am, but he will learn.”

It wasn’t as if her mouth was moving and she anthropomorphized into a talking dog. I can’t even describe the sound of her voice; I just understood her message intrinsically. But how would I ever find this new dog? Besides, I had been looking for a female, preferably a Shepherd mix, per my son’s request.

That morning, I turned on my computer to search rescues, and there he was. He was the first dog on the rescue’s webpage, and only an hour away! I called up to inquire. Bailey Breeze was still available, but I’d have to go through a screening process. I almost shouted, “It’s okay! My deceased dog already screened us for Bailey.” But then I thought that might not be the best approach.

Three grueling days passed, and then a phone call came. We could meet Bailey at an adoption event. I pleaded for them to allow us to come directly to the shelter before he could be scooped up by someone else at the event, but they refused. With no other recourse, I convinced my husband to take off from work and come with us to rescue our new dog before someone else did.

I ran into the event like a lady on fire, calling to the workers, “I need to see Bailey.” Puppies in playpens jumped and barked, begging for attention. “We don’t have a Bailey,” someone said. But I tried again, describing the dog, asking the worker to call the manager, and he said finally, “Oh, you mean Breeze.”

Bailey Breeze was cautious. He was affectionate, but not rambunctious. The workers offered us other, more active dogs, but my family agreed that we were there for Bailey.

As we played with him and strolled around the store, we noticed he had an odd walk. We called our vet. We called the shelter’s manager. We solicited advice from anyone passing by. The words “hip dysplasia” were thrown around. My husband turned to me. “We cannot afford another dog with special needs right now. I’m sorry.” He was right. As much as I wanted Bailey, we didn’t have it in us to care for another suffering dog. I took Bailey into a quiet aisle and sat down, holding him to my chest, explaining why we couldn’t take him home. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

My son stood over me. “Look, Mom, look at his leash!” I had been holding his leash for an hour, but I hadn’t noticed. Right there on the leather tab was the name Remington — my son’s name! This was no coincidence. Bailey was our dog, and we were taking him home. My husband and I came to an agreement: We would take Bailey to our specialist, get her opinion, and then decide.

Three days later, the results were in: Bailey’s hips were fine. He just walked with a lilt! I knew that somewhere along the way, Bailey had met Satchie. Whenever we mentioned her name, his ears perked up.

Satchie had picked the perfect dog for us. And she was right: He is not as smart as she was, but he’s learning.

— Aileen Weintraub —