I am firm believer that dog people should have dogs. This belief has gotten me through the death of my quintessential mutt Maggie (“What breed is she?” I innocently asked the vet. “All of them,” he replied) and the needy, clingy, soulful Harriet, who followed. But when Oscar died, I wasn’t sure I could do it again.

I’d raised him since he was a pup, just a slippery, squirmy little guy who had two modes: extreme chaos and sound sleep. Eventually, he calmed down (a bit) and his true personality shined: silly, neurotic (he had random fears like thresholds and windy staircases), cuddly, and loyal. I live alone, so it’s not a lie to say that Oscar got me through COVID—he was a four-legged lifeline.

So, when Oscar died at the age of 15, I wasn’t sure I could do it again. His death hit me hard—I wailed so loudly I feared the neighbors would call the police.

But dog people have dogs.

Six months after Oscar died, I dipped my toe into the adoption pool again. The Instagram algorithm already knew my type—scruffy and small.

My feed was filled with doe-eyed, pert-eared terrier mixes, along with various descriptions of their personalities: high energy, fearful, not recommended for families with small children, etc.

I saw Gus—then named Chocolate Chip—on PetFinders.com. He was 14 pounds, black and brown, with fur that was alternately scruffy and fluffy (scluffy?). I thought he looked a bit like Toto from The Wizard of Oz.

He had been abandoned in a construction site in Austin, Texas, along with two other dogs. One of the dogs got hit by a car and died. The other two, Gus and a blond terrier type named Rosemary, got scooped up by local shelters.

I applied for Gus like I was applying for a high-stakes job. The shelter, Dizzy Dog, wanted to make sure I wouldn’t return him. “What behavior would you find unacceptable in a dog?” they asked. “Smoking?” I cracked. They did a virtual tour of my home, confirmed I had a gated backyard, and there was an extended phone call where I learned the “3-3-3” rule of what to expect when your dog first arrives: Three days of fear and uncertainty; three weeks of settling in; three months when they realize they’re here to stay and begin to show their true personality.

Then I did a Zoom call with Gus’ foster mom, Amanda. (Gus sat in the back of the frame munching on a bone, as if protesting the very concept of a virtual meet-and-greet with a dog.) My adoption application was approved and it was time to ship Gus halfway across the country to come home.

I was told to meet the transport truck at the White Marsh Royal Farms.

“Sounds sketchy,” I told the adoption agency. “It’s for easy access on and off the highway.” I arrived early, as is my wont, and wasn’t sure I was in the right place until I saw other hopefuls emerge from their cars with leashes and squeaky toys.

Finally, the truck, neatly stacked with dog crates, pulled up and Gus was the first to come out.

I had given myself a pep talk not to take it personally if he was scared, didn’t take to me right away, hid in his crate, or even if he snapped at me.

He’s been traumatized, I reminded myself. He needs time.

Instead, he melted into my arms. When I put him down on the grass, he promptly pooped. An angel and a genius! I could lie and say there was a long adjustment period, that the 3-3-3 rule was a handy guide, but that just wasn’t the case.

Gus was sweet and loving and well-behaved from day one.

I was told that I shouldn’t have him sleep in the bed with me for the first week or so—to allow him to establish his crate as his own safe space. The first night, I dutifully dragged Gus’ crate to my bedroom, put him inside, and turned out the light. He began to whimper. The great “Don’t Let Gus Sleep in the Bed With You” experiment lasted for all of two minutes. He’s been sleeping with me ever since.

Six months into our relationship, Gus is just the best little guy, my ride-or-die. I talk to him about Oscar sometimes. They would’ve liked each other.

A post script: Remember Rosemary, the dog who Gus was found with? Well, she stayed in the family. A month after I adopted Gus, my sister, Felicia, who had lost her adorable poodle-mix Ruby just a few weeks before Oscar died, adopted Rosemary, now named Gertie. Who doesn’t love a happy ending?

Read more staff stories about the furry (and feathered) loved ones in their lives in our Baltimore Pet Lover’s Guide.