My best friend wanted to add a dog to her kennel. I rode along, as company, not intending to bring one home. However, as we drove from one rescue shelter to another, the craving inside me grew and grew.

            Not for the big dogs or the ones that barked and growled. Not for the Sherpa who looked dangerous. Not for tiny things that might break if we stepped on it accidentally.

            It was the medium sized dogs that called to me.

            The cocker spaniels and terriers and mixed-somethings that promised to stay relatively small spoke my name. I resisted, over and over.

            Until we entered the shelter in my home town.

            In one cage was a female and three pups; My friend said they were border collies plus something that she couldn’t identify.

            Two of the pups were the traditional black and white that one expects for that breed. It was the brown and white one that stood out. Not because of size, as they were all small. Not because it looked at me with its brown eyes. I couldn’t say why, but I HAD to have that dog.

            There was a waiting list for the black puppies, but none for the one I wished for. However, they were too young to separate from their mama. And, we were told, all suffered from flea infestation.

            The shelter employee shared their sad story. The owners moved, leaving the female tied to a banister inside the house. They left no food or water. It was quite warm. Neighbors heard cries, loud, desperate cries and called.

            Police broke down the door. They found the mom and five puppies. One was already dead. They took the survivors to the pound. They bathed the mom, but the puppies were too young.

            Another died in their care.

            We put in an application for the one we wanted. The kids could hardly wait! We visited the pound almost every day. We sat on the floor outside the bars and talked to the dogs. We got to pet the female. When the puppies were walking, we touched them as well.

            Meanwhile we searched for the right name. When we came upon MacTavish, it felt right. We could call him Mac or Mackie, or when he misbehaved, the whole MacTavish.

            We were so excited when the call came to retrieve our dog.

            Mike had built an enclosure in the backyard out of metal fencing. Shortly after we got home, we took Mackie outside. He took a few steps and fell down. We watched, but he couldn’t seem to be able to walk.

            We fed him puppy food and water, but he refused food.

            The shelter had given us coupons for services, including tow different vets. My mother-in-law used one of them, so I made an appointment. The vet wanted to do a complete blood transfusion. He had treated one of the other puppies, but he couldn’t tell me what was wrong.

            We didn’t have that kind of money. This was a pound-puppy, not a purebred. His treatment would have cost more than taking one of our kids to the pediatrician.

            However, we could leave Mac there for the day and they’d keep an eye on him.

            I don’t remember how many dollars it cost, but since we were going to see the Oakland Athletics play, Mac would be safer there than at home alone.

            We retrieved Mac later that afternoon. He hadn’t eaten anything, but had consumed a little bit of water. No, he still couldn’t walk. They had done little more than nothing.

            My friend knew dogs. She’s been raising and showing dogs for many years. She told me what to buy. Then she arrived. Mixed up a gruel. Using a syringe which I had gotten from our dentist, she forced-fed Mac.

            We fed him that way for days and days. Eventually he was able to walk a few steps before collapsing.

            Around that same time, we went camping. We brought the gruel mixture and syringe. But, we also had summer sausage. Mac’s tiny ears came alert when we sliced into the sausage. We knew it wasn’t proper food for a dog, but we gave him a tiny bite. Then another and another.

            This was the first solid food Mac had eaten on his own!

            We had a small collar and a leash. When we went for a walk, Mac walked. Until we came to a tiny, tiny stream. He refused to cross over. Our oldest son picked up Mackie and carried him the rest of the way.

            That trip solidified that we were doing the right things and mac would live.

            When he grew bigger, Mac began playing catch. His version wasn’t really catch. He got the retrieving part, the bringing it close to the thrower, but not the dropping part. Over and over we tried to teach him, but Mac never learned.

            He developed a love of all sizes and shapes of balls. His favorite, though, were soccer balls. He’d use both front paws to surround the ball, then pick it up in his mouth. With sharp claws and teeth, the ball didn’t stand a chance.

            When he was a freshman in high school, our oldest made it on the JV team. One night when it was time to pick up our son, I decided to take Mac. He loved riding in cars. Oh, my, would he get excited!

            He loved cars so much that sometimes he’d get in the car as we were unloading groceries and wouldn’t get out until he went for a ride.

            I was running late, so I didn’t bring a leash. Mac was pretty obedient, so I wasn’t too concerned.

            Our small car had a hatchback. Our son was still playing when we arrived and it was too warm to stay in the car. I figured I could open the hatch and sit here, my hand gripping Mac’s collar.

            All went well until Mac saw the soccer ball. He got away from me and stormed onto the field, bringing the game to a halt. I ran over (yes, I could run back then), in time to see our son chasing Mac and the ball.

            Thank goodness Mac’s claws didn’t puncture the ball, as high school teams use the expensive models!

            After my son grabbed Mac and returned him to me, I tugged him back to the car, put down the hatch and stayed there until the game ended.

            My son wasn’t angry, but his coach was upset.

            The story of Mackie running onto the soccer field, disrupting a high school game, was one that was retold often.

            Our kids are grown up and out of the house and Mac’s been dead many years, but just thinking about him still makes me smile.