Lesson #3: The exact right dog will always come into your life just when you need him most.

I first laid eyes on Dante in the parking lot of a Gibson's discount store in Montrose, Colorado, when his breeder brought him to meet me at the agreed-upon time. A man I met briefly had just lost a Wolfhound named Zaephod, and though this man and I had nothing whatsoever in common, and I would not have even considered taking a restaurant recommendation from him, there was something about the way he talked about Zaephod that stayed with me for years. I knew nothing of breeders and their varying scruples at the time, as all my other dogs had been pound rescues. I saw an ad for Wolfhound puppies in the Denver Post one day and without doing the slightest bit of research, called the number and bought a dog.

In the seven years since that day, I have heard many things about various breeders, few of them complimentary. I have heard the words "puppy mill" used in connection with their names. I have heard about those who breed sick dogs to sick dogs to make a buck or two off the litter, with little or no regard for the future of the puppies that they sell. I have no way of knowing whether any of that is true of Dante's breeder, but it strikes me that if you're out to make a buck, breeding dogs who eat enough to double their body weight six times during the first twelve weeks of their lives might not be the very best strategy.