Kristin Kidd A Funny Mystery How many three legged terriers are there in San Antonio? Correction. How many three legged terriers missing the left lower leg, with black floppy ears surrounded by a mop of grey toupee, raccoon like eye rings, and dappled skin underneath a thin layer of wiry white body hair? This is a very distinctive dog, but I’m not sure I know the answer. I’ve wanted a dog for years now, but a recent struggle with depression and the ever looming fortieth birthday were making this a pressing matter. In my mental contortions, I should have been married by now. My life lacked the fruitful brood so many of my peers had several times over. I never noticed them before. I was off, out on adventures, with noble purpose and colorful tales. Then trouble, office politics, petty gossip and backbiting, threats and intimidation, reared their ugly heads at work. I was blindsided by it. My fairy tale career now had a bitter, Wellbutrin tinged aftertaste. It was time to grow up. The therapeutic literature I read was flush with trite advice. Start a hobby. Make new friends. Exercise. Eat right. Take bubble baths. Yada yada ya. I scrolled down lists, telling myself not to scorn the suggestions. It all wearied me. I had tried so many of these remedies, and what had it done? Was my life one unending remedy for a mobius strip of ailment? Was it this unending ring? Then I read, “Find a furry friend that loves you. Adopt a pet from a nearby shelter.” The fleeting idea of someone waiting for me after work and greeting me with wild excitement eclipsed all the sensible critiques I held about self-involved singles patching up their miserable empty lives with an animal or two. Surely it was selfish. Expecting an irrational animal to be the family you previously neglected. Doting on a dog with all the love and care you denied yourself, as if this hardly mastered skill was yours in abundance. And don’t get me started about dog strollers, organic dog food, dog boutiques and spa days. Dog yoga. Sigh. Was I crazy? Well yes, and I had survived it. I had survived mornings I couldn’t get out of bed. Where every damn joint and muscle ached, my stomach churned and my skin put forth a florid display of scales, hives, rashes and eczema. I had migranes. I had back pain. And I would have laughed over all this psychosomatic scenery if the road hadn’t been so confusing. I felt as if my compass was broke. My integral, shining, precise interior compass now spun like both the North and South poles were one-centimeter left or right from each other. I was in a mental fog that got deeper and deeper, until one day I woke up and realized I could no longer responsibly function in my line of work. I went for help. It wasn’t brave; it was a matter of survival. Now, after two months of professionals tweaking with my serotonin and dopamine levels, I was looking at online pet personals. I began to think that all of San Antonio’s stray population had only one set of parents: a pit bull and a Chihuahua. Maybe with some randy Retriever uncle thrown in. There were shades of short smooth hair ranging from vanilla, to fawn, to cocoa, to raven. And then there was a lone face in the crowd at the Animal Defense League. His name was Mitch. He is the terrier I’ve previously described. I left out the big, expectant brown eyes and tilted cock of the head in his mug shot. I left out the winsome description that ended with “Will you be my friend and experience the best of everything with me?” It was unbearable and cute, and no, I don’t think I could handle a special needs dog. End of discussion. I was still mulling breeds, and options, and puppy adoptions timelines on the morning I went to the Farmer’s Market. The Pearl Brewery Farmer’s Market is wrongly named because although you will find a great deal of produce, the dogs there outnumber the farmers. The Farmer’s Market is where all the gi-gi, glamorous pets strut and sit and speak. They have glossy coats. Good grooming. Pure-bred pedigrees and indulgent parents. I silently shook my head and gently smirked. I was just starting to load my bike and hop on when I saw him. I swear I saw Mitch. He walked on a lead held between two slight elderly ladies. He walked not with the hop and limp I’d played over and over in my mind, but a smooth even stride that made other dog owners stop and back up for a better look. And he smiled. He smiled with a look that was beyond happy, it was wise and full of humor. I struggled with my long splayed out fan of fennel and carefully positioned lettuces. I didn’t know what to think. Had Mitch already been adopted? The website said he was “good with other dogs.” Did sponsors take out dogs for Sunday social walks? I went home, cooled off from triple digit relative temperatures and spun salads. The dog I saw was sheer magnimity and fearlessness. This was a dog I wanted near me. A dog worth breaking all the rules for. Before I knew it, I was in the car with directions to the animal shelter, hoping he was back after his morning stroll. I arrived twenty minutes before the shelter closed, was solemnly told no more adoptions could take place that day, and scrutinized with wild eyes when I said I would like to see Mitch. I was waved off in the direction of kennel number four. A green shirted volunteer held a lead and opened a gate. There, with a timid and gentle pace, hopped Mitch. He did not have the posture of Farm Market Mitch, which could easily carry a stack of books on the shoulder. No, shelter Mitch’s coat was outdoor dusty, and his eyes rarely left the ground. We went off to a yard where Mitch marked nearly every vertical landmark, lifting his rear end nub high with determination. He loped and ran after a tennis ball and the volunteer told me the whole sad tale of how Mitch came in after a car wreck. All of his organs had been badly injured and surgically reorganized, and his leg was amputated. “Ordinarily, a dog like that would be put down” the volunteer said softly “but they must have seen something in him.” He had lived at the shelter for six months, half his life by now. And the volunteer kept repeating solemnly, “He is a good boy.” It was stated as a matter of fact, rather than endorsement. I’d return to the shelter after two days of looking at “tri-pawed dog care,” dog steps, dog car booster seats, dog comfort harnesses, dog walkers, doggie day care, dog PT and balance builders, dog toys, dog puzzles, dog training classes, vets and yes, dog strollers. And I wonder, who was the dog at the Farmer’s Market? Who was that shining dog of strength and possibility? Is it possible, just barely possible, that I could do somebody, or something, a little bit of good? Provide some love to a little friend in need? I really started to wonder. I thought it through with great amazement. It still remains a mystery. But I wonder if dogs have guardian angels.