“Good. Be back soon. Hopefully.” She gave the dog a smile, coming to the conclusion she was already losing her heart to it. Bugger. So much for being detached. She hurried to the reception area of the rescue center and went up to the desk. The woman behind it was just ending a telephone call, so Rosie waited.

The woman hung up, made a quick note on the pad in front of her, then looked up at Rosie with a smile. “Hello. How can I help you?”

Rosie returned the woman’s smile. “Hi. I’m looking for a dog to adopt. I’ve been and had a look in a few of your kennels and found one that I think could be a good fit for me, but there’s no information card. It’s the…” she paused to do some quick mental arithmetic, “fourteenth kennel from the door. A black and white Collie-looking thing with some tan markings and mad eyebrows. He or she is gorgeous—and so friendly.”

The woman chuckled. “Yeah, I know the one you mean. The dog warden just dropped him off today, actually. Unfortunately, other than his sex, we don’t know anything about him. We’ve nicknamed him Scruffy for now, but he’s certainly an enigma.”

“Oh?” Rosie frowned. “Why’s that?”

“Well, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but since 2016 there’s been a law in place that says owners must have their dog micro-chipped and ensure the associated contact details are kept up to date. This has meant that almost every dog that’s been brought to us since has been chipped. Obviously some dogs are handed over voluntarily, but for those that have been lost or have escaped by accident, we’ve been able to scan their micro-chips, contact the owners and get them reunited really quickly. It’s been amazing. But this boy, Scruffy, is healthy and happy, definitely not your typical neglected stray and yet… no chip. Hence we know next to nothing about him. The vet hasn’t even seen him yet.”

Rosie nodded slowly as she tried to process this information. “So… what exactly are you saying? He’s not up for adoption?” Her heart sank. Typical—she’d found a dog she thought might be a good match, and he wasn’t available!

With patience. You look at them all objectively at first, and if there’s a cutie that’s right, you go from there. If there isn’t, you leave and try again in a couple of weeks.

She gave a firm nod. Objectively—that’s how she had to play this. She’d have to disengage her emotions altogether and glance over each animal as though it was a piece of fruit or a vegetable in the supermarket. Assess its shape and size, its suitability for her requirements. Then, and only then, could she let her emotions be involved. It was a weird and kind of heartless way of going about things, but it was also responsible. Better that than falling head over heels for a Great Dane or an Irish Wolfhound.

This tactic lasted for precisely eleven further enclosures. Too big, too big, need to be re-homed together, needs to be in a house with other dogs, reactive, needs extensive training… each one was quickly checked out, then passed by for whatever reason.

But when Rosie arrived at the twelfth kennel, everything changed. The scruffy beast in front of her was perfectly suitable size-wise, and it rushed towards her, panting happily, tongue lolling and tail wagging so fast it was a blur. She tentatively put her fingers to the wire and was treated to a volley of enthusiastic doggy kisses. With a chuckle, she pulled her hand back and wiped it on her jeans. “Well, you’re friendly and affectionate enough, aren’t you?” She glanced to the side. “But where’s your information card, sweetie? I don’t know your name, if you’re a boy or a girl, or anything.”

Like Aidan before it, the dog tilted its head to one side at the sound of her voice. It really was cute. It was some kind of mixed breed—a Collie with something smaller, she suspected, and the result was a lively, unkempt-looking creature which appeared to have a lovely nature. Its scruffiness wasn’t due to its situation, though—it actually looked incredibly healthy; bright eyes, shiny coat, wet nose.

Rosie’s heart sunk. That probably wasn’t a good thing. If the dog looked healthy, it likely hadn’t been missing for long—meaning its owners were probably looking for it and would arrive to claim him or her very soon, or there was a particular reason the creature had been handed in to the rescue center. Maybe it wasn’t good with children, or other dogs, or was terribly destructive.

The dog sat there, continuing to watch her from beneath its bushy eyebrows as its tail wagged nineteen to the dozen. She couldn’t resist poking her fingers into the enclosure again. Once more, she got lots of friendly licks. Hmm—seems nice enough with me. And he or she is the right kind of size. Maybe the information card hasn’t been put up yet, or has got lost? Guess it can’t hurt to go and find out.

Wiping her slobber-covered hand on her jeans again, Rosie said, “Right, don’t get your hopes up, but I’m going to go and enquire about you. There’s a chance we could become friends, but I need to know more about you first, okay?”

Yet more head tilting and tail wagging ensued, followed by a funny growl that sounded awfully like agreement.

He wagged his tail faster and cocked his head, as though digesting her words. Then he padded over to a pile of blankets in the corner of the kennel, flopped down and rested his head on his paws.

Rosie moved on. The next enclosure held a pair of Border Terriers, who yipped excitedly and ran around in circles as she read their information packet. She sighed and looked at the delightfully scruffy duo. “Sorry, you nutters. You’re actually the right sort of size, but it says here you’d prefer to be re-homed together, since you’re from the same litter and have been together all your lives. There’s no way I want to separate you, so I’m afraid we’re not a match.”

The terriers, in their excitement, were now play-fighting, and therefore hardly noticed when Rosie stepped away. She chuckled. Not a match. This is like a bloody dating show. But the thought cemented the idea in her head that, if she was going to give a forever home to a dog, they needed to be a good match. It went both ways. She might find a dog that ticked all her boxes, but if they didn’t get along, or the dog didn’t like her, she couldn’t take it home. She had to be as picky about a dog as she was about men—possibly more so. If a man wasn’t right for her, she could break it off—no harm done, except perhaps a smidge of bruised pride or some disappointment. If a dog wasn’t right, she’d have to bring it back to the rescue center, and she really, really didn’t want to do that. That would be heartbreaking for all concerned.

The only trouble was, if she had to be pickier over a dog than a man, then chances were she’d go home empty-handed. She’d been single for over two years. There’d been the occasional date, but only ever first dates, no follow-ups—Rosie didn’t believe in stringing anyone along if she wasn’t attracted to them. And it hadn’t been through lack of trying, either. She wasn’t desperate, and she didn’t believe that being in a relationship was the only way to be happy, but she’d attempted dating websites, allowed her friends to set her up, and had also been open to possibilities when she’d been out and about doing menial tasks like grocery shopping, or out socializing. She’d now adopted the attitude of if it happens, it happens; if it doesn’t, it doesn’t.

Damn it. If she couldn’t find a bloke she liked in the reasonably populated area she lived in, how on earth was she going to find a dog in this rescue center which held only fifty dogs?