Every pet I’ve had as an adult came to me as a sort of flea-bitten windfall.  I’ve never actually sought a pet in the going-shopping sense.  This was virgin sod.

Our local shelter was my first choice.  I have no breed prejudices.  Mutts make perfectly acceptable canine companions.  I don’t get people that must have animals with a more distinguished family tree than their own.  Talk about overcompensating.

A dog from the shelter would likely be grateful to live in our home.  This would be a refreshing change after thirteen years with a cat.  Plus, honestly, I had no intention of paying any sizeable amount of money for an animal that I could neither ride nor eat.

There were several traits we agree were critical before bringing home any particular bundle of fur.  No puppies.  Adorable, but cancelled out another needed trait.  Housebroken.  Training a creature in the most basic of bodily functions was emphatically not on my list. Smallish.  We wanted an indoor companion without turning our home into a barn.  Non-yappy.  I appreciate a watch dog, but not the ones that marvels at the sound of its bark.  Ditto with people.  Non-needy.  Calm.  Doesn’t pounce on you and others.  Happy just being a dog.

So I got on the shelter’s website.  There were three inmates at the time.  Holly, Noel, and Nick.  You can guess on what holiday these three were named.  Nick was too big.  Holly and Noel were possibilities, but Noel’s three day waiting period wasn’t up yet.

The description said Holly was some mix of blue heeler and ???.  In the picture, she looked pitiful.  But it said she was sweet and quiet.  Both worthy traits of our future mutt.  We climbed in the car and went to see her.

She was outside with another family when we arrived.  I recognized her on site and wondered if we were too late.  My wonderful husband told me later that the kids flinched when the dog tried to nuzzle them. No.  Not the dog for them.

She looked like a small German Shepherd but with eyes that smacked of a husky.  The irises were multi colored with a pronounced patch of white.  She was beautiful, sweet, and wagged her tail as much as a dog can with it firmly tucked beneath her.  I wanted to take her home right then.

She kept constant watch of the door hoping her pack would come for her.  We came instead.  We checked out the other dogs.  Nick was white, spotted, and loveable, but not for us.   Noel, God-love-her, barked the entire time we were there. Nervous, irritated, scared, you really don’t see the animals they will become.  Yanked from their pack they are disoriented, disenfranchised, discouraged.

My son and husband felt the same as I did about the dog.  We took her home and she slept for most of the next two days.  She was exhausted from her incarceration.  My son came up with the name Maela.  He found it in the book Brisingr.  It means Quiet.  We looked it up on the internet.  It’s also a derivative of the Hebrew name Ishmael, which means God hears.

Perfect.  I had prayed for a quiet dog.

Two weeks later, Maela owns the place.  The timid creature we brought home is obsessed with a squeaky sheep toy, has an effective erruff to us warn of passing danger, a killer oooowwwwwooo when a siren goes off, and a decided love for the game of fetch.  Not on the list, but a added bonus to our skill set within the pack.

p.s.  Photos await her finishing her heat.  After two weeks diapering a dog in Disney Princess Pull-ups, I have a guess as to why someone would part with such a prize.

Today’s Funny Word:  Calamistrate