That’s one reason I liked Sundays so much when I was little. We always went out to visit my Grandpa Wright. He was a widower who lived on a little farm in the middle of nowhere. He had two fat beagles named Sparky and Thumper, and I loved those dogs. My parents never wanted to stay long, and my mother always put me straight in the bathtub when we got home.

I take a deep breath and head inside the shelter. The woman at the desk is middle-aged, wears faded jeans and a sweatshirt decorated with black pawprints. Her hair is pulled back in a graying ponytail, and she wears no makeup on her moon-like face.

“I’d like to adopt a dog,” I say.

“Okay.” She points to a clipboard full of papers. “Fill out the forms, please.” She hands me a pen with a big plastic flower taped to it. “What type of dog are you interested in?”

“Not a puppy.” I’m too worn out to train one at this point. “One that’s a couple years old maybe. Already housebroken.”

“Okay.” She stands and puts her hand on her ample hip.

“A bigger dog too. One that has an intimidating bark would be great.”

“We don’t adopt out guard dogs,” she says, narrowing her eyes.

I look up from the forms. “Oh, no. I’m looking for a pet. He or she will get lots of love. Live in the house. I’m a good pet owner.”

“Uh huh.” She walks around the desk and looks over my shoulder as I flip to the next page. “You can finish those in a minute. Why don’t you come on back? See if any of them is a good match.” She props open the door with her hip. Barks and yips stream out.

I take a step back. “No. Why don’t you pick one and bring it out here?”

She gives me another scowl. “Why?”

I bite my lips. Will I sound like a lunatic? I can’t go back there without falling to pieces. “I trust your judgment. It makes me sad, that’s all.”

She huffs out a breath as though I’m a troublesome customer in an upscale boutique. “Well, we are pretty full right now. So you want a big dog?”

“Not like a hundred pounds or anything. Like a lab size, I guess.”

“No problem with a mixed breed?”

“No, of course not.”

“A couple years old, not a puppy?”

“Yes. Girl or boy, either is fine.”

She doesn’t say anything else, just turns and walks through the door, letting it close behind her.

A few minutes later, she comes back with a black dog on a leash. “This is Sadie. She’s got shepherd and lab in her, among other things.”

I reach my hand down and let her sniff, then pet her head, which she keeps low. But then she licks my arm when I stop. “She’s perfect.”

“She’s been here a couple months.”

“What’s her story?”

The woman snorts. “People surrendered her when they moved. Said they couldn’t take her to their new apartment.”