DIANE MAKAR MURPHY You won't just gain a friend, you'll also save a life

The receptionist buzzed me in; the heavy metal door opened, and all the dogs in the Mahoning County Dog Pound started barking. Well, almost all. One howled and played his tail against the metal cage walls like a bass drummer. Two others -- a frightening looking Rottweiler mix whose head grazed the top of the cage as she sat, and a little German shepherd mix whose fur above his eyes formed two cinnamon-colored teardrops -- waited quietly in side-by-side cages.
I passed by the Rottweiler to look at the other quiet detainee and croon a little embarrassing baby talk. He didn't move, and I didn't stick my fingers into the cage. Instead, I knelt down and looked through the links to appraise him.
In the meantime, my 16-year-old daughter reached for the Rottweiler before I could groan, "No!" The dog leaned toward her and nuzzled her hand affectionately. So much for my ability to judge character.
I looked back to the shepherd. Protruding through the wire at the bottom right of the cage were four little toes. I reached out and stroked them. The puppy -- about a 25 pounder, maybe 5 months old -- watched. Emboldened by the ambivalent response, I reached my index finger through the bars and stroked the top of his paw. He laid his head upon my finger.
All wrong
Please understand, this pup was all wrong for me -- his age, his type, but mostly his gender. He was a male, and my dog won't live with another male.
I dropped the loop of a little leash around his neck and walked him out of the room anyway. He promptly walked into the glass door, like a bird mistaking a window pane for the sky. Adorable. Outside, I knelt down again, and the puppy wrapped himself into my lap.
"He's just not what I want," I explained to the pound employee as we returned him to his cage.
"He's scheduled to be put down Friday," he said sadly. It was Wednesday. Those little teardrops were on a dead-dog-walking.
We left -- my daughter and I quietly and her friend Kristen, whose dog had died not so long ago, in tears.
I called my husband in New Mexico, where he was visiting his mom. I told him about the dog. "Oh go ahead and get it. He'll be fine for us." That was the lie I half hoped to hear, but didn't. "Good luck finding a home for the dog," he actually said.
That night, I dreamed I was walking my death-row dog down a strange urban street. I woke up anxious, knowing I had a less than 24 hours to find an angel. I phoned a few friends without success.
The clock was ticking, and my anxiety mounted. Could I let him die? It was a ridiculous question; dogs are put to sleep every day because there is no one to take them, because thoughtless people don't bother to spay or neuter their pets. Why should this one be different? (Because he laid his head upon my finger?)
Asked co-workers
At The Vindicator, I put out a plea for help. Co-workers offered to call friends, and to check with parents or mates. The photo editor suggested we feature the pup as "Dog of the Week" and buy him another seven days of life.
Finally, Shasta, a woman I'd never met, from the Credit Department, said she'd take the dog if no one else would. I had a backup, and I could finally breathe again.
Then, a co-worker agreed to go to the pound with me and take a look. This time when I approached the little shepherd's cage, the puppy recognized me and jumped up, tail wagging. When we opened the cage, he ran circles around us.
My new friend took home his new dog on a Thursday afternoon, about 19 hours before it was to be terminated. He gave it his best shot, but his dog didn't like the new addition. True to her word, however, Shasta was waiting in the wings.
I'm hoping for a happy ending, but the jury is still out. As for you, perhaps you would consider a visit to the pound to save another life. And, by all means, spay or neuter your pets. Too many stories end definitively, with a needle and an empty cage.
murphy@vindy.com