The rest of the kids marched down the stage stairs and made a beeline for their families. The families made a beeline for the dogs. My eyes teared up. Sometimes, in your own small way, you really can make a difference in this crazy, crazy world.

And then I saw the scruffy dog from the beach.

Time stopped. The heavens practically opened and the angels almost sang, like in those old religious holy cards my grandmothers used to send us tucked into our birthday cards along with a five-dollar bill.

It really was the scruffy dog, wagging its tail, surrounded by a circle of kids who were petting it. It had been bathed and brushed and had a big red bow around its neck. And yet somehow it was still undeniably scruffy.

I scanned the room looking for John, couldn’t find him anywhere in the crowd.

I race-walked across the room, dodging and weaving around parents and kids, and wiggled my way in to get close to the scruffy dog. It seemed to recognize me, or maybe I just wanted to think so. I squatted down, scratched it behind the ears while it licked my face. “I’m so glad you’re safe,” I whispered.

“Hi,” I said to the volunteer on the other side of the scruffy dog’s leash. “Does this one have a home yet?”

The woman smiled, adjusted her Santa hat. “I’m happy to say they’re all spoken for, and we even have waiting lists for most of them. Of course, all of our adoptions are contingent upon a home visit so we can be sure it’s a good match.”

“That’s great,” I said in a sad little voice I didn’t even recognize.

I made sure all my students had found their families. Then I walked through the lobby and down the hallway to my classroom. I grabbed my coat and stood outside in the frigid air, leaning back against the building and staring up at the stars. At least it was a good night for stars.

I knew I should be happy for the scruffy dog. I knew I was completely overreacting, that I’d lost a dog and not a baby. But I still felt a hole in my heart, like I’d felt a hole month after month when I found out I wasn’t pregnant after all, like I’d felt when my niece Siobhan lost the baby she was going to let John and me adopt. Loss is loss.

John came out of the school and walked toward me, his long overcoat buttoned up.

“You’re amazing,” he said when he got close. “Truly impressive performance,” He whipped out a big bouquet of roses and baby’s breath from behind his back. “Brava.”

“Thanks.” I tried to take in the deep, heady smell of the roses as I sniffed them, to appreciate the gesture, the thought behind it.

“So, we’ve got her.”