While reading the Sunday newspaper, my wife noticed a classified ad stating that a female Lhasa Apso had been found, and was awaiting its owner at the local animal shelter. The ad struck us as a bit unusual, in that Lhasa Apsos are not a common breed in our area. We also noted that this very week held the anniversary of the day Moose had arrived at our door so many years earlier, abandoned and near death from starvation and dehydration.

We confirmed our mutual feelings that we really didn't want another dog, at least until considerably more time had elapsed. But living with Moose had led to our developing a deep affection for the Lhasa Apso breed, and we felt an obligation to at least monitor the welfare of the dog.

So we went to the animal shelter to visit her that Sunday afternoon. Upon our arrival, the shelter workers explained to us that the dog had been abandoned, rather than lost. Her former owner, with obvious deliberation, had left her tied up inside a nearby do-it-yourself pet wash business, and would not be returning for her. And, yes, several other families had expressed interest in adopting her. She would become eligible for adoption later in the week, following the mandatory waiting period.

We walked back to see the dog, who was sitting in her cage alongside an energetic Chihuahua. We were struck by the fact that, in virtually every noticeable way, she was so very different from Moose. He had been a male, while she was a female. At 18 pounds, he had tipped the scale at the upper end of the Lhasa Apso weight range. She, however, was tiny, weighing, we guessed, no more than 11 pounds. He had been golden, while she was white and black.

But the major difference was in personality. One of Moose's greatest joys was interacting with people, and he had never met a stranger. This dog, however, seemed completely oblivious to us, even as we talked to her and stroked her fur through the cage door. We left the shelter hoping that, surely, someone else would decide to adopt her.

Two days later, we visited the little dog again. As we approached her cage, she showed neither recognition, nor interest, nor awareness of our presence. One of the shelter workers led the dog and us into the exercise yard, so that we could observe her outside the confines of the cage. But the dog did nothing other than walk slowly across the grass, seemingly oblivious both to her surroundings and to this opportunity to romp. And she showed no more interest in the shelter worker, who had an obvious rapport with the other animals, than she did in us.

Several truths were apparent as we left the shelter that day. The dog had failed, we realized sadly, to capture our hearts. And not only had we failed to capture her heart, we had failed to capture even her attention. This particular dog appeared to be seriously lacking in personality, exuberance, and companionship skills.

She would become available for adoption when the shelter opened on Thursday. We decided to go to the shelter at that time, hoping to see her adopted by one of the other families who had inquired about her. If that did not happen, we would leave her at the shelter for another week. And if no one took her within that period, we would probably -- and grudgingly -- serve as adopters-of-last-resort.

On Thursday morning I visited Moose's grave, and I thought of how I missed the seasons and adventures we had shared together. The sights and sounds of Christmas around the neighborhood only added to the sadness. I wished that the dog at the shelter could have been more Moose-like in her personality. And I hoped that we could somehow be certain of the right thing to do about her.

Adoption Day