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a pet store, Sandi was no longer pretending to be surprised. Eversince the incident with Bruno they had shared a mutual distrust of the source of pet-store dogs. So why change now?
    Sandi emerged from the car, hesitated, and then began walking toward the fur and sawdust trapped behind the glass.
    “Mom, where are you going?”
    From across the street, Sonja waved her mother over. She was standing outside a different type of store altogether.
    “Mom, you and I both know I have a hard time expressing myself, but you know I will always love you. I wanted to find a unique way for us to celebrate your big five-oh together and this was what I came up with.”
    Sandi hoped the fearful arch in her eyebrows, the incredulity paralyzing her lower jaw might be construed as surprise.
    “I want us to get matching tattoos,” said Sonja, putting it out there as a request and a question.
    Sandi could have let the disappointment get to her. Instead, in a moment of confusion, with her daughter, her firstborn, searching her face for acceptance, she moved past her own desires and saw the gesture for what it was. For the better part of her life Sandi had been nurtured by the unconditional love of animals. Her daughter was independent, guarded, and emotionally restrained. Declarations of love in any shape or form were rare and Sandi grabbed this one while she could, hugging Sonja tight, their physical bond a chance to recover composure, to accept the loss and appreciate the gain.
    “I’m so glad you want to do this with me,” said Sonja, her eyes still probing for signs of unwillingness, offering a way out. “What kind of tattoo do you think we should get?”
    Never in her wildest dreams did Sandi imagine she would be answering such a question, and though the obvious suggestion was an inky illustration of her coveted Min Pin puppy, she and Sonja eventually agreed upon tiny, matching yellow roses on the inside of their right ankles, which, to Sandi’s surprise and pleasure, became a cherished expression of their friendship.

    F OR twelve more months stray pets failed to cross paths with Sandi, and as her fifty-first birthday approached, she allowed herself to dream that this was her year. Once again Sonja and Jan began to scheme online and on the phone, but when the day arrived, instead of a Min Pin puppy her gift was a ceramic pot filled with yellow chrysanthemums. Sandi, the queen of internalization, finally lost it.
    “Dear God, Jan, I’m fifty-one years old. I’m not dead. Mums are for grandmothers and unless you and Sonja are keeping something from me, I’m not a grandmother yet.”
    In the end it was her son, Jamie, who broke down her reserve, forced a confession, and took it to his father. It was decided: after decades of letting strays find her, Sandi’s family would see to it that she would find a pet of her very own.
    Though she did feel a bit like she was interfering with fate, Sandi was determined to do her homework and get it right. She purchased books on how to find the perfect breeder, on selecting the perfect companion. Her lifestyle involved air travel, but luckily, for the most part, her flights were direct and relatively short. According to ASPCA recommendations, having your dog travel under the seat in front of you was the safest way to go. Therefore, based on size restrictions alone, the Min Pin breed remained a strong contender for the perfect canine companion. However, to win the title, he or she would also require a calm demeanor, excellent social skills, and, most important of all, an aversion to excessive barking. Sandi was asking a lot, and she knew it, but after six weeks of extreme surfing and research, she came upon an unpretentious home breeder of miniature pinschers a thousand miles away in Doon, Iowa.
    Sandi placed a call, and the phone was picked up by a young, polite child. Here was an opportunity too good to miss, a soft target for a delicate recon mission. The kid was happy to blab and Sandi was