I stood on the front porch, finger poised at the doorbell.

Just what am I letting myself in for here? I wondered.

I’d never been to Brian’s house before. Friends at church had set us up and I liked him right away. We’d had our first date a few weeks before—an afternoon coffee that we extended to dinner. We had so much in common—similar upbringings, the same love of faith and family. We were both in our late thirties and, more to the point, we’d both had disappointing first marriages. Mine had ended almost a decade earlier. Brian had been divorced two years. I thought we’d been given the miraculous gift of a second chance.

There was one hiccup: Spike, Brian’s seven-year-old rat terrier. I hadn’t met Spike yet, but I might as well have. Brian spoke of him often. “He was my security blanket through the divorce,” Brian explained on our first date. “You’ll love him. Trust me.”

Well, I liked dogs, but what was I supposed to say when Brian told me Spike might be so excited to see me he’d pee on my leg? Or that I shouldn’t worry if there were pauses in our conversation because he had to throw Spike’s squeaky toy? “I wouldn’t want him to feel left out,” Brian said. Hmm, I thought. Who’s going to feel left out?

I pushed the bell. Footsteps. Scrabbling paws. The door opened. “Hi!” Brian said. A black-and-white streak raced around my ankles, sniffing every inch of my shoes. I held my breath. No accidents. Spike looked up, his tail wagging a hundred miles an hour. A toy frog dangled from his mouth. Spike gave the frog a squeeze. Squeak.

“He likes you!” Brian exclaimed. “Come on in.” Brian got to work on dinner—shrimp and rice. Spike positioned himself between us in the kitchen. “How are your classes going?” Brian asked. I’m an elementary-school teacher. I was about to answer when Spike gave his frog another squeeze. Squeak.

“Hang on,” said Brian. He took the toy from Spike’s mouth and hurled it into the living room. Spike rocketed past and a moment later returned, frog clenched between his jaws. “What a good dog you are!” Brian said, laughing. I started talking about a student of mine. The frog whizzed by again. Spike’s paws clattered on the floor. Squeak. “What was that, Amy?” Brian asked. He threw the toy again.

By the time dinner was done we hadn’t gotten much past “hello.” Maybe Brian was nervous, I thought. I sure was! Yet, coming to his house made me realize just how much I wanted this relationship to work.

For years I’d been telling myself I didn’t mind being single. But, really, part of me was still just as hurt as I was that day my husband turned to me out of the blue and said, “Amy, I don’t want to be married anymore.” How long had he thought that? How long had I fooled myself into thinking he loved me? Could I ever trust love again? I looked at Brian across the table. He was busy feeding Spike some rice from his plate. Was I fooling myself about this relationship too?

We finished dinner and sat on the sofa to watch a movie. I caught a glimpse of Brian’s bedroom. Typical bachelor. Bed unmade, sheets everywhere. “Spike loves pulling the comforter off,” Brian laughed. “He hides toys in it and then digs them out.” I didn’t say anything, but I could almost feel myself pulling back. Spike wedged himself between us on the sofa and gave me a look. Brian stroked Spike’s head. I couldn’t help wishing that he’d put that hand over mine. When I finally stood to go, Brian gave me a hug. Spike emitted a low growl. Brian pulled away. “It’s okay, buddy,” he said. “It’s just Amy.”

We said goodnight and I drove back home. I was already asking myself if I, a self-proclaimed neat freak, could ever be okay with a dog who pulled covers off the bed, or with the little white hairs that coated every piece of furniture in Brian’s house.

Brian and I continued dating. I kept hoping the Brian I liked—handsome Brian with the great sense of humor and solid values—would somehow triumph over Brian, the obsessed owner of Spike. When we were at his house I hardly had a moment alone with him. He continually threw the toy for Spike. The dog came with us on trips, sticking his little head blissfully out the car window. And of course conversations were always accompanied by the squeaky-toy soundtrack. Brian began saying ominous things like, “Boy, if we ever got married it sure would be hard to kick Spike out of bed. What do you think about sleeping with a dog?” I told Brian I didn’t like the sound of that at all, but my words never seemed to register.

The breaking point came one late summer Sunday. We’d been dating five months by then. After church we went to Brian’s house to watch a movie. We dozed off on the sofa. A strange sensation on my chest woke me. I opened my eyes. Spike stood there, nose to nose with me, his mouth open, panting. He stared at me. Not a “please play fetch with me” kind of stare. More like, “I was here first. Remember that. I come with the deal.”

That was it. I heaved Spike off me and stood up. “Brian,” I said, startling him awake. “I want this to work, but I really need there to be some limits on Spike. Sometimes I feel there’s not enough room here for both him and me.”

I paused, hoping Brian would say the words I’d been longing to hear him say for months—“Amy, I had no idea; of course we’ll do something about Spike. I’d do anything for you!” But he didn’t say that. He mumbled the same old stuff about Spike being his best friend and always there for him. “Just take me home,” I said.

Brian didn’t even try to call right away. Good, I thought. I busied myself getting my classroom ready for the new school year. Marching around putting up posters, I thought of one outrage after another. The way Brian’s eyes lit up for Spike but not for me. All the times he petted Spike and didn’t even caress my hand. The dog toys all over the house! Spike begging at the table…and sleeping in the bed!

When the phone finally did ring I let the machine pick up. “Amy, I’m sorry,” Brian said. “Can we see each other again? I really want to explain. I think we can work this out.” I didn’t return the call. Brian left several more messages and sent e-mails. Finally I relented and agreed to meet him after church.

My expectations weren’t high. “Amy, what do I have to say to convince you? We’ll train Spike together.”

Cautiously I agreed. A few days later I was back at Brian’s house for dinner. The dog toys, I noticed, were put away and Spike kept to himself, gnawing on his frog toy in the hall. Once I caught him looking at me, his head cocked. “Don’t go away,” his liquid brown eyes now seemed to say. “He needs you.”

That night Brian made a surprising announcement. “I have to go out of town for a week for work,” he said. “What if you took Spike and started his training yourself?” I jumped at the chance. At last I’d see whether Spike really could change.

The first night didn’t go so well. I made a bed for Spike on my sofa and put up a baby gate blocking the stairs to my bedroom. Spike whined all night. I sat at the top of the stairs and reassured him. The next night he whined less. Even less the night after that. During the day I played fetch with him. When I firmly told him it was time for a break he flopped down on the sofa beside me. At dinner my refusals to let him beg seemed to work—mostly.

On our last night together we sat on the sofa watching TV. I looked down at Spike. We’d played a fast game of fetch and he was worn out. It felt good to have his warm little body tucked next to mine, I had to admit. I thought of all the years Spike and Brian had been together. All the games of fetch they’d played, the nights they’d spent listening to each other breathe. Suddenly a powerful emotion swept over me. Here, lying next to me, was a living image of the kind of love I’d yearned for from Brian. Openhearted, unconditional love. Love I could rely on. I’d spent the past decade mistrusting that kind of love. So much so that maybe I’d grown unwilling to give it myself.

Spike’s love is a little like your love, isn’t it, Lord? I knew God loved me without limits. And deep in my heart I longed to trust love again, to give of myself completely. Well, it was time. I picked Spike up and gave him a big hug. He sighed contentedly.

Brian came home from his trip and things went great. We married a few months later. That was five years ago. Spike’s older now—he’s 12. He has bouts of pain at night, so we don’t let him sleep alone. That’s right, Spike sleeps in our bed. Now I want to be close to him if he needs us in the night.

I thought Spike was going to pull Brian and me apart. Instead, he ended up bringing us together. Funny how that works, when you have faith and open your heart.

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Fumbling with my umbrella in one hand and Spanky’s leash in the other, I tried to nudge the front door to my cabin closed with my shoulder. Ow. The rain didn’t do much for my usual morning aches and pains, but Spanky needed his walk.

That’s one of the good things about having a dog, I suppose, especially if you live alone. A dog makes you get up and get going every day. These days, though, Spanky and I were definitely feeling our ages. It took us a while to get moving.

The rain was coming down in sheets. All of a sudden something made Spanky tug. I lost hold of the wet leash. I reached over and tried to pick it up off the ground. No use. Next thing I knew Spanky was trotting down the road.

I couldn’t run after him; I was still sore from a fall down the basement steps a couple of days earlier. “Spanky, come back!” I yelled. “You’re going to get hurt!” That was the last I saw of him. He disappeared into the nearby woods.

I doubted he’d even heard me yell. At 15, his hearing was nearly as bad as his eyesight. Some days he needed me to lead him to his water bowl.

He frequently ran into cabinets, the sofa, chairs. He couldn’t even get down off of my bed in the morning without help. What would he do all alone in those woods?

I limped home, got into my car and drove up and down the road, calling Spanky’s name out the window while the wiper blades slapped out a hard rhythm on the windshield. There was no sign of him.

I thought back to when I’d found him on a roadside nine years earlier. He was clearly a stray, thin and filthy, dodging cars near a local dairy farm. I pulled over and got out. Close up I saw that his shaggy fur was matted with cow dung and covered with ticks.

Still, it was love at first sight. This guy needs me, I thought.

I tried luring him to get into the car, but he wouldn’t come. So I went home and got some food to bring back.

Every day after that, I’d toss him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or a Moon Pie on my way to and from work. And every day at 7:00 a.m. and again at 4:30 p.m., Spanky waited for me at the intersection of Route 52 and Happy Hollow.

One day I couldn’t stand it any longer. I bought a 16-inch pizza with pepperoni and double cheese. This’ll get his attention. I put it on the front passenger seat, stopped at our meeting place and leaned over to push open the door. Spanky jumped right in, and I took him home.

The vet who checked him out told me that Spanky had been abused. “But we’ll get him fixed up,” she said.

“Any idea what breed he is?” I asked.

“Looks like he’s a terrier and sheepdog mix.” I pressed her to be more specific. “The best I can tell, he’s a TV dog,” she said. “You know, like the ones you see on TV all the time, but you never know quite what they are. One thing’s for sure, he’s a lucky dog.”

Maybe. But I was blessed. The Lord had sent me Spanky for a reason–several reasons.

Spanky never left my side. He was with me while I nursed my broken heart after my marriage of 25 years ended. He understood my wordless grief after both my parents died. I confided in him about everything.

I’d laughed at the “Over the Hill” party my coworkers threw for me on my 50th birthday, but when I got home it was Spanky I opened up to. “I’m scared of growing old and being all alone,” I’d told him. “Don’t ever leave me.”

The day I took that tumble down the basement steps, Spanky came running to my side and licked my face.

Lord, you’ve got to help me find him! By afternoon I was losing hope. If a car comes, he’ll never be able to get out of the way in time. I knew I should go home, but I couldn’t bear the thought of walking into an empty house. But I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer.

I pulled into my driveway. Once again I begged God to help, this time out loud. “You gave him to me, Lord. Don’t take him away now.” I walked up to my cabin, feeling more down and alone that I’d ever felt. I’d had so many losses in my life. I didn’t know if I could stand another.

Just as I closed the door behind me, I heard a noise. Someone’s in the house! I held my breath, not daring to move. There was the noise again, a tinny jingling, like the sound a charm bracelet makes when you wave your arm. It got closer. Spanky walked into the room, dragging his leash behind him.

“I’ve been looking all over creation for you!” I cried out, not believing my eyes. Spanky let out a long yawn, then wiped the sleep out of his eyes the way he always did after a nap. I fell to the floor and wrapped my arms around him, burying my face in his shaggy fur.

Most folks don’t like the smell of a wet dog, but this was the sweetest smell ever.

Soon, though, I wondered how he got back. How did he get into the house? Maybe I really am over the hill. Maybe I’m losing it, I thought. Spanky’s return remained a mystery, but I didn’t question God too much about it. I was just glad to have my dog back safe and sound.

Then, one night about a month later, a white car turned into my driveway when I was taking out the garbage. I’d never seen it before, but the license plate told me it was a kindred spirit: “LUV YR K9,” it read.

A lady got out, smiling like we were old friends. “I’ve driven by here so many times. I thought I’d never catch you at home.”

“Oh?” I said, curious.

“I just wanted to make sure your dog was all right,” the lady said.

“My dog?” Now I was really confused.

“A while back,” she said, “I saw a dog sniffing around the bushes in my yard. Well, I could tell right away he was lost. So I went out and looked at his tags. And there was your address.

“He got right into my car,” she continued. “Soon as I got to your house, he stood straight up in the seat and started barking. He knew he was home.”

“How did he get in?” I asked.

“You must have left the door open,” she said. “He went right up to it, pushed it with his nose and went inside. I called out, but no one was there.”

“That’s because I was looking all over creation for him!” I said. Like me, the lady was always on the lookout for a dog in trouble. Spanky couldn’t have been in better hands. “Thank you so much for finding him,” I said.

Yes, there are still those rainy mornings when my joints ache and so do Spanky’s. We start the day slow sometimes, that’s for sure. But I’ve never felt such earthly comfort before as I do from my dog.

Did I say that Spanky was a stray? That’s not quite true. I think God put Spanky right where he could do the most good–by my side.

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