It started on a crisp Saturday in October. My wife said, "There's a dog show at the Cow Palace today. Want to go?"

My gut tightened. I'd been contemplating the idea of another dog for months, afraid to jump. My Old English Sheepdog, Paco, had died seven years earlier, and I'd sworn no other dog could fill his collar. Whenever the urge crept in—watching neighbors walk their retrievers, seeing dog food commercials—I shoved it away.

Clients in my pet-finding business often asked if I had pets of my own. I'd deflect with humor. "I spend so much time finding other people's pets, I barely have time to sleep." The truth ran deeper. I wasn't sure I could survive another loss.

"Sure," I told Shirley, fidgeting with my coffee cup. "Let's check it out."

We pulled into the Cow Palace around noon. I spotted a front-row space wedged between two oversized trucks. "Well, look at that—maybe my luck is changing." I slid in with a parking move sharp enough to satisfy any instructor.

Shirley laughed, tugging me toward the entrance. "Come on, honey, let's go find out if luck still likes us."

Inside, sawdust and dog shampoo thickened the air. Yips, barks, and handlers yelling "Stay!" echoed off the concrete. In the main ring, seven Afghan hounds floated beside handlers in perfect half-runs.

Shirley nudged me. "How do they even choose? They're all beautiful."

"Like judging a fashion show where everyone was wearing the same dress. Good luck to 'em," I said. Shirley laughed.

Then, a chair crashed behind us; metal on concrete made a loud jolting bang. My knees buckled before my brain could catch up. I crouched, heart pounding. For a second, the room blurred back into another decade, another world. Shirley's hand found my shoulder.

"You okay?"

Embarrassed, I forced a half-smile. "Yeah." But my body told a different story. It never forgot. I shifted focus to the mission. Somewhere in this chaos stood a dog who might break through my wall.

We walked aisle after aisle.

"I prefer females," Shirley said out of the blue. "Cleaner, less territorial."

"Really? Sounds like a dig at males to me."

She bumped my shoulder. "If the shoe fits …"

Beautiful goldens filled seven rows. Too many, too common. No one would ask, What kind of dog is that?

"Golden overload," Shirley said.

Then, we turned a corner and saw him.

Elevated on a platform sat a huge dog who looked carved from myth. Six inches of rust-and-charcoal coat shimmered like lit silk. Dark, intelligent eyes scanned the crowd, calm as stone. He didn't pant, didn't fidget. He just radiated control like ripples in water.

"Wow, honey," I whispered, "look at that."

The breeder, a graying man in his fifties, proudly grinned. "That's Digby, a Briard. Five years old, full of himself."

I offered my hand. Digby sniffed his acceptance, then gave me one polite lick. A royal blessing. His coat felt like human hair, thick and flowing.

"They were bred in France to herd sheep," the breeder said. "Jefferson brought them to America. Smart, loyal, proud. They know they're special." A laminated sign read: A heart wrapped in fur. My pulse jumped. The media would eat him up. But beneath that thought stirred something darker: a reminder that nothing, even this perfect creature, lasts forever.

"Any puppies?"

"Not here. But a friend up north has a litter." He scribbled a name and number.

At home that evening, the number sat on the kitchen table. Digby's calm presence haunted me. Hesitation clawed at my chest, but Shirley dialed the number. The breeder vetted us first before announcing, "It's your lucky day. Two male pups are available."

"Can we see them next weekend?"

"Absolutely."

Relief broke through. I raised an eyebrow at Shirley. "So much for your preference for females."

She grinned back. "We'll see who's messier—you or him."

Saturday, we drove to Lincoln in Northern California. We pulled off the main road onto a long driveway. Gravel crunched under the tires as a silver-haired woman stepped from the farmhouse. Dorothy, the breeder, moved with the air of someone who'd birthed a calf and baked a pie before breakfast. "Welcome! How was the drive?" she asked.

She led us to a pen where three eight-week-old Briards tumbled in the sun. "The female's spoken for. We haven't named them yet, so we use different color yarn around their necks to identify.

Dorothy clapped. Two pups stirred. The third, with the blue yarn, lifted his head and locked eyes with us. His coat shimmered brown-gold, his muzzle dark like a tiny gorilla. He walked with purpose, already discerning. He studied me, weighing whether I deserved his attention.

Dorothy scooped him up. "Outgoing, fearless, a little bossy." She placed him in my arms: warm weight, cashmere fur, puppy breath tinged with grass. He looked at me intensely focused, as if reading my soul to decide if he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. Then one deliberate lick across my cheek, signing a contract in slobber.

I handed him to Shirley. Same evaluation. Same lick.

"Well," she laughed, "I guess we passed the interview."

Blue tumbled back into the grass, wrestled his littermates, then ambled over and curled against my legs and fell asleep. His weight pressed warm against my leg. Not the crack of grief this time—something softer. Hope. Fragile, but real.

He chose us.

Dorothy broke the spell. "Ready to make it official?"

"What do you think?" I asked, looking at them together.

Shirley cradled him, half-asleep in her arms. "I think he's perfect."

Twenty minutes later, papers signed, Blue became Chief Inspector Clouseau. We named him after the bumbling French detective who, despite himself, always managed to solve the case in The Pink Panther movies.

On the drive home, Clouseau slept on Shirley's lap, one eye opening now and then to check if we were still there. The fancy carrier we brought sat unused in the rear seat. For the first time since Paco, I didn't look backward. I looked forward—toward Clouseau.

Our family had grown by four paws and one determined heart.