I need more spirituality in my life. I need to find DOG.

Reasons Pete (the husband) and I never got a dog:

(1) Too scared it will die, (2) only real people have one, and, (3) Pete says, “If I can’t have a cat, you can’t have a dog.” He’s a cat person. I’m allergic, and cats aren’t dogs. (First two reasons also stopped us from having a baby.)

But lately, I’ve been feeling real-er. And I’ve started obsessing about dogs. I stop for dog commercials. I browse animal shelters. I peer in strollers, expecting to see a dog.

So one day, I’m PMS-ing…Hmmm . . . Can I use my bloated emotions to some end?

I make myself think of Pookie, da doggy killed by the mayor of Cote Saint Luc, a memory that always gets me crying, and I walk into the bathroom where Pete’s shaving.

“I’m”sob“over FORTY”, BIG sob,”and I . . . I . . . never had a BABY!” I’m on the floor. Pete, shaving cream foaming in his ears, is on the floor too, not knowing what else to do. “Waaa . . . I can’t believe… I’ll never have a baby! Never!” HUGE sob. “I can’t even have . . . a DOG!”

Pete speaks. “We’ll get a dog! We’ll get a dog!”

“No. You don’t”, sob,”like dogs; they’re dirty and smelly.”

“We’ll get a dog.”

Sniffle. “Are you sure?”

He’s quiet for a moment, then asks, “Can it be an outdoor dog?”

“Pete, if you want an outdoor dog, get a squirrel.”

I promise him I’ll find a medium-sized, housebroken, non-drooling-nor-smelly dog.

Six million dogs are euthanized each year. Yes, six million. So I tour shelters and pounds around town, smelling dogs, and six weeks into the hunt, on Mother’s Day, I find her in El Monte. El Monte is a city we princesses drive by on our way to Palm Springs. It’s a place of mower-transporting, mulch-filled flatbed trucks with bad transmissions. It’s also home to the shelter Beagles and Buddies.

About seventy medium-sized dogs rush me as I enter the gate. Beagles are pouncing and pawing at me: “Take me home!” “Aren’t I cute, look how I cock my head.” “Forget that loser, he poops in his bed, take me!” “Brown-noser!” “Crotch sniffer!” “Like you’re not?!”

And then I see the little blond, a buddy, not a beagle, across the yard, sitting sideways, head turned toward me. I push through the sea of Snoopys, keeping eye contact with what looks like a wild fox. I should get this kind of eye contact from Pete.

I finally get to her, she looks up with almond-shaped golden eyes and licks my knee. Once. She keeps looking up, staying politely seated. Regally. This is the dog. I know, like you know about a good cheese danish.

The woman in charge says, “She came from a home where she was abused by children.”

“I’ll take her.”

We name her Hildy. Hildy and I are in the exam room with the-vet-to-the-dogs-of-the-stars. “So, Dr. Schulman, what breed is she?”

Hildy looks up at him, her head tilted, big eyes, crooked nose, all ears-she’s waiting for an answer.

“Well . . . “He’s contemplating. “I’d have to say . . . she’s . . . a dingo with the face of Bambi.”

That seems right.

I cook for Hildy. I don’t cook for Pete; then again, Hildy never said, “The chicken’s dry.”

The day after bringing her home, Pete, the outdoor-dog man says, “But why can’t she sleep in the bed with us?” He takes the Hildybeast to the dog park and comes home proud. “Did you know the other dog owners nicknamed her the aerobics instructor because she gets all the dogs running?” I know.

I call, “Hildy!” she stops what she’s doing, runs over, plops her butt at my feet and looks up. Head cocked, her kangaroo ears tuning in, the eager little fox awaits information. “We going for a walk, Mom? Is there a chewy thing? Would you like a lick? How may I please you?” And loving? Hildy makes Lassie look like a cold bitch. Hildy is the new Quaaludes.

“Want a massage, Hildy?” She lies back, belly presented, paws hinged, nose up, doing an imitation of Snoopy. Her fur is silky. It’s better than stroking the velour cords I wore in highschool. She stretches as I massage her thighs.

Hildy is me. Encapsulated at my feet, doing yoga with her chew toy, is my vulnerability-in fur. Her life depends on me. I must do the right things, like not have poisonous plants in the backyard.

My love for her is unconditional, although . . . I do wish she could type.