I was in seventh grade and still believed in wishing on eyelashes and birthday candles, and signs from above. Sitting in the back seat while my parents made remarks on the traffic, I silently asked for a sign. A sign from my aunt, who died two years earlier. I discreetly made the sign of the cross, and thought, Aunt Elaine, have the right dog lick my chin.

We arrived, and I opened the car door and immediately regretted not wearing a jacket (as usual). However, none of that mattered. I was on a quest. A quest for my new dog, and I was positive I would find it here.

We were at the Ridgewood Veterinary Adoption Fair, a parking lot filled with tents that displayed the names of rescue organizations – Rbari, Ruff Rehab, Rescues Are Us, and so on. In each tent clusters of people looked at dogs and cats.

“Sarah has adopted Buddy!” an announcer said over the loudspeakers, and a bell was rung as people clapped. Each adoption was celebrated in this way.

I set off, wandering through the fair. Quickly I recognized some dogs I had seen on Petfinder, which I visited at least four times a day. I was a bit obsessive about this quest.

I politely pushed through a group of people, trying to get closer to a playpen with a sign that promised “Adoptable Puppies.” In the playpen had to be at least nine puppies, all dog-piled on top of one another. Together, they formed the Mount Everest of sleeping puppies.

“Yes, they will be adoptable next week,” said a haggard-looking man as he shooed hands away from his napping dogs. People were flocking to fill out adoption applications for the mini-schnauzer mixes. I knew my chances were slim.

I walked around the parking lot, looking for another tent. Over to the side, I spotted a sparsely populated tent. It contained a pen with puppies, and a crate with an adult dog. As I approached, I realized these puppies would be large dogs when they grew up. With their long gangly legs and enormous paws, I knew my mom would veto my efforts to adopt one. She had grudgingly boarded the Let’s Get a Dog Express, but she had conditions for the new dog. No shedding. Not big.

I started to turn away, already looking toward the next tent, when a woman asked, “Would you like to hold the runt?”

She placed a puppy into my arms before I even had a chance to respond. The pup was notably smaller than its siblings. Its ears were too big for its head; one pointed up and the other flopped over. It was completely black, except for its white lip and a splash on its chest.

Immediately, the dog stretched its neck up and licked my chin.

Then its head wobbled back down and settled into the crook of my elbow. The pup heaved an enormous sigh, its warm breath tickling my hands.

At this point, my parents caught up with me. Seeing me holding the puppy, they each looked like two halves of the tragedy mask. My mom’s face showed pure terror, while Dad’s comically lit up, thrilled.

“No,” she said immediately.

“Dog!” my dad exclaimed over her. As he cupped the pup’s face in his hands, it again heaved a sigh before nuzzling his hands.

“His name is Smiley,” said the women. My dad and I exchanged a glance. What kind of names did they give these dogs?

“It’s going to shed,” my mom said disapprovingly.

“No, he won’t shed!” my father and I insisted in unison. It was obvious the dog was a lab mutt. It was obvious it was going to shed, but we hoped my mom wouldn’t notice. Or would drop her condition.

We chatted with the woman, getting more information about her rescue group. She confirmed my mom’s suspicions that the puppy would shed. Yet, I was already holding him. At that point putting the puppy down and walking away was out of the question. Besides, he was making a good first impression, behaving like a little angel, sleeping in my arms.

“He’s so cute!” I remarked for the thousandth time.

“Lynn, how can you say no to this face?” My dad gestured to the dog. It was my mom’s turn to sigh.

“Fine,” she conceded, with a wave of her hand.

And so we brought the dog into our lives. On the way out of the fair, the announcer stopped me.

“Congratulations! What is your name?”

I gave them my name, and the puppy’s name. “Julianne has adopted Smiley” boomed over the loudspeaker. Maybe his name wasn’t perfect, but this traumatized pup with ears like Dumbo, shaking like a leaf in my arms, was.

The thing about rescue dogs is you don’t know their history or what they’ll become. This dog was red tagged, meaning that the shelter was going to put him down if he wasn’t adopted soon. It’s what happens in many shelters; they euthanize the less desirable dogs. With rescue dogs, you don’t know how they’ll react. Would he be defensive of his food? Or try to bite if we touched his tail? Aggressive behavior in dogs results from bad experiences with humans. But, I was sure Smiley would be a good dog. After all, he had licked my chin, given me the sign I had asked for. With all tents I had wandered by, all the runts I could have held, all my mom’s conditions, I had this dog. Maybe it was pure coincidence, but I’d like to think that my aunt picked this dog for me. So thanks, Aunt Elaine.

We brought the puppy home and introduced him to our crabby cat-like-dog, Madeline. We renamed him Finn.

As time went on, Finn settled into our lives and our home. Every night he sleeps in the middle of my bed, since the foot of the bed is beneath him. Every morning he barks three times before getting his food. Every time you sit down, he’ll get his ball for you. Every time you stop petting him, he growls gently. Every time I walk through the door, he acts like he hasn’t seen me in a week, tail whipping so hard his whole back end moves back and forth. Every day, he brings me my brother’s (clean) socks as a gift, a thank you for all the belly rubs.

Currently, at my feet, lies this dog. The absolute best dog I could ever have found.