"If you want a friend, get a man."

I knew that I should have never let the notion even enter into my head. But I did. I couldn't help it.

Something about connection. That old statement attributed to Who Knows Who, "If you want a friend, get a dog."

The rate I'm goin', a dog it will have to be.

The Native Plant Society has a demonstration garden on the grounds of the Walla Walla Humane Society. I am a member of the NPS, but have never visited the demonstration garden. I found myself in that part of town.

I take it that it is a common frailty of mankind. Purposefully doing something you know you should not do. Not because it is wrong, or anything like that. But the interconnectedness that results in obligations. In responsibilities. In commitment. In sacrifice. In why in the hell am I doing this. Perhaps it is like having sex without protection. No way. Not me. It will never happen.

There are two doors on the front of the Shelter. The door on the right for "Drop Offs." The door on the left for "Adoptions." Into Adoptions I entered. I swore under my breath that I should not be doing this. I have never entered the door of a gay bar. I suspect I would have the exact same feelings.

Inside, a front counter. Computer monitors protruding upward like a row of Stonehenge relics. People perched behind monitors. People standing at the counter. I notice a rack, on an adjacent wall, full of pamphlets. Dog-eared pamphlets at that. There was another door down a little hall. I interrupted the computer person and asked if I could just go in. "Certainly," was her response.

So I did.

First room on the right had two cages. Rabbits. Quiet.

Room on the left, lots of cages. Cats. Quiet.

Down the passage, into a small room, a dozen or so small cages. Small dogs.

Instantly the room came alive with ruckus animation. I suppose dancing captives were all quick to learn from the old-timers, get the sucker's attention, hold it, if you expect to be adopted.

So I was targeted. Radiated by pleading eyes. Deafened by ear-splitting, attention-grabbing barking. Begging to sniff a finger by the wet little nose peeking through a wire mesh. Why didn't the architect think about sound-absorbing material on the cinderblock walls. Eight little dogs. Why were they there? What bad things had they done to deserve the "Drop Off" fate? Did they know it was inevitably either adoption or doggie heaven? Had the old-timers told the newcomers that? Or was this more like the Holocaust. Innocent of their fate. Had these dogs learned, by the school of hard knocks, how to present their resume, how to put their best paw forward, how to melt the heart of some gawking sucker? And what it also meant to them if they didn't? Couldn't? Wouldn't?

I observed them all. Wondered? Why for? How come? What about those soft brown eyes? What about the touch? Their warmth? Their trust? Their devotion? Their faithfulness? Their ability to be a partner? Their inevitable history? Their nature? Their nurture? Or lack thereof? What about the baggage they inevitably bring with them?

In the back of my mind, I was thinking along the lines of Labrador, or Golden Retriever. A big, gentle, dog. More like a man. Thinking of those surrogate situations of three-dog-night intimacy. (Cold enough it takes three dogs in bed with you to keep from freezing to death.)

I passed through the door marked "Large Dogs."

Big room. Big kennels. Lower in frequency but markedly louder in decibels.

Big dogs. Scruffy dogs. The resume of one big black Heinz 57 stating he was a "prison trained dog, ask about this." Another missing his front right leg.

I simply had to concede my nights would never be three-dog cold. I returned to the small dog room.

Bottom row, far right cage.

Those eyes. Unblinking. Staring.

No barking. None. Whatsoever. Wouldn't even stand up. No extending the nose to sniff. Just staring.

A larger Chihuahua. Rusty red, reasonably short hair.

That coconut face. Perfect equilateral triangle of dark eyes and dark nose. And that stare. Did I mention that stare? So different from the yappers in the other cages. But why? Just a well behaved, loveable little dog, or was his mind racing, "But for the love of Dog, don't pick me."

I returned to the front desk, asked if someone could tell me the story of the little dog in the bottom right cage.

Of course they could.

He was found as a stray in one of the city parks two weeks ago by a police officer. Brought in. Just getting ready to be registered it in the computer system as a for-adoption dog. Male. Approximately three years old. Known history negative. Now neutered, vaccinated. Ready for adoption. There is a three-day trial period. I can bring him back, no problem, if he doesn't work out.

It is Friday. The trial-period agreement gives me until 5 P.M. Monday. What the hell. Those eyes. That unflappable manner in the midst of cacophony. And did I mention that intensely penetrating stare? My heart is tearing itself out.

A volunteer brings the dog out to me. Sets it on the counter. I sign the papers. They loan me a leash. The lady behind the computer places a Humane Society tag on his collar, just in case it escapes from me. I cradle his head in my hands. Place my nose next to his. Stare into his eyes. Whisper.

The lady is holding his leash. I say that she can lay it down.

I rub the dog's face. He makes no move. At all. Why is he so passive? Is he ill? They assure me he is a healthy dog. For several minutes I attempt to establish "the bond."

In time, I take him to the minivan. Immediately he jumps into the back seats. He cowers away from me. Simply will not come to me.

We get home. I have to physically lift him from the car, and as soon as he is set on the ground, he wants to run. But stops to pee first.

I enter the kitchen door. The dog immediately hides under my office chair. My mother doesn't notice. At first. Then. "What. Have. You. Done!"

I recite the facts as I know them.

"What about the cat?"

What about the cat?

The cat has been around dogs before. The cat is the boss. The cat knows that. A far cry from the stereotype of things worldly when I was but a little boy . . . families were of the kind where the dog was the father and the cat was the mother. That is the way my Dick and Jane primer learned me.

After standing around, observing the behavior of this new intrusion into the household, his trying to hide himself under the table-cloth draped dining room table, my mother went to her big chair in the living room to sit down. The dog made a bee-line for her and snuggled in her lap.

The dog is afraid of me. Afraid of old scruffy-looking men. Perhaps there is a reason he was caught as a stray . . . running for his life. Perhaps there is a reason no one inquired of the Shelter for a specific missing dog.

Perhaps the reason for that stare, for the no barking, for the total lack of his sales pitch to entice me to select him over all others in that small dual purpose shelter-marketing room...the fear. That angst that he would be hurt again.

The cat. The cat door. We had closed it to what we thought the cat could still get through but the dog couldn't. We were wrong. Like a shot, that dog was out the door. Leash, fortunately, still attached and trailing behind.

The dog runs from me. I can't get anywhere near him. The man in the single-wide behind us had a letter to the editor published last Sunday about his hatred for dogs. His last sentence was that people should put a cork up the dog's behind before they take their dog out for a walk. How often I have wanted to tell him to stuff his own cigarette butts up his own butt as instead of flicking them onto the ground and the ambient wind then blowing them into our yard.

And of course, the dog runs into his yard.

I make a cut, the dog turns, runs back into our yard. Around the house. Again. My mother is now out there. He makes a shot for the street over to Wal-Mart. Some kind soul intercedes and heads him back our way. I yell at Mom to step on his leash. The dog lets her do it. I pick him up. Cuddle him. Rub his cheek with the back of my fingers. Massage his shoulders. Press my face against his. Whisper to him. Assure him he doesn't need to be afraid. I won't hurt him. He doesn't fight me. Just freezes motionless. Back in the house I set him down. He runs away from me. Takes refuge with my Mother.

After awhile, I intercede again. Hold him. Cradle him. Cuddle him. Touch him. There is no resistance. No response. I whisper to him again. Over and over and over. "Can I be your friend? Will you let me?" I think of a puppy my daughter found in the dumpster out behind the Subway store she was closing one night so many years ago now. Of course she brought that dog home. It was terrified of men wearing a baseball cap. Terrified of anything that looked like a broom. That dog bonded with my daughter. I wondered who could beat a dog with a broom? Why?

And now this one. The Shelter people were calling him "Reginald," but of course, they assured me, I could call him anything I wanted. "Rusty" was the name that was now sticking.

I held Rusty for a long time. He didn't fight me. I whispered to him. Asked him over and over again what had happened. For him to tell me what had happened. I want to make it right with him. He should not know that kind of fear.

Rusty is asleep now on my Mother's bed. I will rouse him just before I retire. Take him out for his business. Put him back on his makeshift bed where he seems to recognize it as a place of safety.

I knew that I should have never let the notion even enter into my head. But I did. I couldn't help it.

Something about connection. That old statement attributed to Who Knows Who, "If you want a friend, get a dog."

Monday, 5 P.M. It is still more than two days off.

Is there time for Rusty? "If you want a friend, get a man."

The Refectory Manager