I did not have a prophetic dream about what puppy I was to take home. Instead, I woke dreadfully early, as usual, and when I got back from my dawnlit walk down the rainwashed road, the Ballard's little house was already filling with people. Three pups were leaving that day. Which one for me? I took the black boy pup and the red girl pup, separately, on a little walk through the fields. Black pup was uninterested in me and struggled to get back to the puppy pen, while red pup followed me around and came running when I called. So I told Marilyn I would take her little Betty home with me. It seemed the obvious choice.

There is one bad thing about Gwen: she is just as untalented at prompt leavetaking as I am. The morning just evaporated out from under us. We had planned to make a short detour to Marti Parrish's house on the way south, to watch her dogs work, but by the time we got there, it was late afternoon. How did that happen?

Marti was more than generous with her time. We watched her work some of her green dogs as dusk fell. These dogs were somewhat related to, and worked like, the other green working-type Aussies I was familiar with — overeager, pushy youngsters with talent that was still very raw. They were going to make nice dogs but needed all the things Bonnie had needed (still needed, often enough); miles and patience and endless reminders to get out. Marti has a relaxed training style which I imagine is the fruit of many years of experience.

She had thoughtfully prepared a sheaf of pedigrees and photographs for me that I greedily tucked away for later. There was so much I wanted to ask, but we had to tear ourselves away and get back on the road. We had terribly far to go and so little time.The rest of the trip consisted entirely of driving and pitstops for the puppy. Betty was a trouper, and Bonnie was a saint. She was so kind and patient with the little pup, and Bet quickly developed a crush on her.

I pulled into my own driveway at eleven p.m. the next day, after fifteen hours on the road. I felt like pig swill. Betty met my family with some alarm but what could be expected after such a day? Tomorrow would be better. It was time to relax and enjoy my new pup, for whom I had researched and planned so much, and from whom I expected such great things. But it didn't turn out that way.

Bet was cute and so smart and glued to my leg, but she was not a happy pup. She remained wary of my family despite all their efforts to be friendly, and just didn't have the same personality that she did back at Marilyn's. She was clearly anxious, wary, even depressed. I figured she would get over it soon. But she didn't. Every day she was the same, for a week. Something wasn't jelling for us. I didn't know what it was, but over the past twenty-five years of acquiring dogs, I have often ignored my intuition, and not once has this turned out to be anything other than a means to delay a decision which would have been better made much sooner.

Betty was ten weeks old. Now was the time, not a month from now, not two years from now, to decide whether she was the right pup for me, and I was the right master for her. With terrible sadness I called Marilyn and told her I would like to send Betty back to her.

And Marilyn did what I wish every breeder would do under like circumstances, but know (from painful personal experience) that they sometimes do not: she was gracious, understanding, and commiserating. She did everything possible to help Betty get back home. Nothing I can say can express how much this meant to me. But what was most healing was that, when Marilyn picked up Betty at the Seattle airport, they were both overjoyed to be back together. Betty immediately went back to being the happy, bold, outgoing pup I had originally met, once she was back home where she felt she belonged.

Aussies, perhaps especially working bred Aussies, are devoted dogs, and often enough, one-person dogs. I remembered Tag jumping the gate. And sometimes they bond very early. Marilyn now told me that Bet seemed to have picked her out as early as five or six weeks of age, quite different than the other pups in the litter. She was a strong-minded little dog, and knew what she wanted. Unlike many another dog in like circumstances, she got it: Betty is staying with Marilyn for good now.

There are no bad guys in this story. Given a quiet, thoughtful, open-ended visit with the litter, instead of a jam-packed, exhausted, running-out-the-deadline sort of visit, both Marilyn and I might well have consulted our intuitions and made a different decision from the outset, instead of the expensive and stressful fix we had to engineer. Live and learn. I know Bet will be a very fine dog — for Marilyn. The other pups in the litter made their adjustment to their new families without incident.

No pup. I unpacked. I hung my blue ribbons on the wall, and my windchimes outside the kitchen. I caught up on my sleep. I took a breather. I'd figure what to do next eventually, I supposed.