“That’s a good idea. Those dogs are so vicious, I’m just waiting for that one to—”

“Ladies?” I said. “The dog you’re talking about is my dog, and yes, he’s a pit bull. If you can believe it, his last owner left him chained outside to a tree, with no food and hardly any water, for days at a time. Yet unbelievably, he still loves humans, no matter how horrendously they’ve treated him. And Sammy Davis Jr.—that’s his name, by the way—has never once even nipped at another dog, even when they’re climbing all over him like that Chihuahua’s doing right now.”

The two ladies were clad head to toe in Lululemon, their hair in perfect ponytails, makeup flawless, nails shiny, not an ounce of chocolate pudding anywhere on their thighs or tummies.

I wanted to tell them to shut their stupid faces. I wanted to tell them that there’s no such thing a bad dog, only bad owners. I wanted to tell them to stop talking about things they knew nothing about.

What I said was, “I’d love for you to meet him; he’s the sweetest guy. Would that be okay? I’ll hold the leash; no pressure.”

Because that was how you changed a heart and a mind. Individual experiences. Common sense. Common ground. And that big pageant smile never failed to do the trick.

They looked at each other, then looked at me unenthusiastically. “Um, sure. But he’s not going to, like, rip my little Bobo to shreds, is he?” one of them asked, arching a perfectly manicured brow.

“No, ma’am, I can promise you your Bobo will be just fine.”

They looked at each other once more, then nervously nodded at me.

“Sammy Davis Jr.!” I called out, and my own slice of golden-eyed, brindled gorgeous looked up from a spirited game of “can’t catch me” with two huskies. He came bounding across the sand, tongue hanging out, doggie grin spread wide across his face.

“Good boy,” I said, letting him lick my hand. “Sit.” He obeyed instantly, calm even though he’d been racing through the surf seconds ago. He gazed up at me, jowls falling back from his face, creating an even wider grin that never failed to make me laugh out loud. “Sweet boy, I’ve got some new friends for you to meet.”

I spoke in a low tone to him, as I always did. He was incredibly smart, always in tune with me, and eager to please.

The two women were cringing back slightly, but one looked more interested than the other did. She’d be the one I’d win over first.

“Do you want to pet him?” I asked, smiling again.

“Yeah, sure. I guess,” she mumbled, reaching out with a tentative hand. Sammy Davis leaned in to sniff, as dogs do, and she jerked back a bit.

“It’s always good to let any strange dog smell you first, before you pet them. That’s it, perfect,” I coaxed, as she reached out again. This time she held still as he gave her another sniff, nuzzling into her palm.

“He loves to have his ears scratched,” I said, and as he lowered his head for her, she reached around and began to pet his head, eventually scratching his ears a bit. His tail thumped contentedly on the sand as he watched his friends run and play on the beach.

This was our favorite dog run, a place Sammy and I came at least once a week. We always changed up the time and day, to make sure we interacted with as many new people and dogs as we could. It was good for him, it was good for me, and it was great for everyone else to see this beautiful dog playing with everyone else and their dogs.

Sammy Davis Jr. had become the unofficial mascot of Our Gang, and my best friend. He spent every night in the house with me and several other dogs that rotated from the barn into the house to continue their socialization skills.

Three months after opening its gate, Our Gang had successfully placed 90 percent of the original gang, with new dogs coming in every week. We’d had three more litters of pups from moms who came to us already pregnant, and placed every single one of them with new families. Only a handful of the dogs still had trouble with kids and other small dogs, something that was just a fact of life when animals were mistreated so horrendously in their earlier lives. But instead of being euthanized, or worse, left out on the street, they’d live out the rest of their lives on a ranch in Monterey. There are worse places to reside.

Clark and Viv had come down to adopt their puppy, and were only days away from their own delivery. They knew what they were having, but it was “mum’s the word” until he or she arrived. They’d adopted a lovely dog, pure gray-blue with smoky blue eyes. They named him Lancelot—something about a knight? No matter, they were smitten, and that dog rode home in the front seat of a giant 1950s convertible, looking very regal.

And speaking of mum’s the word, my mother, in a twist of fate I could never have predicted, had fallen head-over-heels in love with an old black and white dog named Sally. Missing an ear and walking with a limp, she’d come to us as a stray, almost starved to death. But a kinder soul I’d never met. She helped to wrangle the younger dogs, she sat patiently with the sick ones that came to us, and she was always the first one into the yard each day, and the last one back in the barn after herding in any stragglers for the night.

When my mother was visiting one weekend, I’d put her to work helping me clean out the stalls in the barn. Initially, she’d regarded everything with an upturned nose and a when-will-this-be-over attitude. But after about an hour, every time I turned around, I noticed that Sally was right next to my mother, and my mother seemed to be sneaking her something from her Talbots-inspired overalls. I finally caught her with some leftover turkey bacon, and suggested that she take Sally on a walk around the property, that she needed some exercise on that bad leg.

My mother came back an hour later, enraptured, and told me that no one was allowed to adopt Sally. Because she was taking her home with her the following day. Later on that afternoon, with Sally and Sammy Davis Jr. asleep by the fireplace, my mother and I had a traditional English tea, with tiny cucumber sandwiches, clotted cream, and about a barrel full of tears. She talked, I talked, and she told me she was . . . proud of me.

She also told me that if Lucas and I ever got married, we should elope.

Lucas.

Sigh.

Bad kind of sigh.

I hadn’t heard from him the entire time he was in Belize. I kept a few tabs on him through the news service that was Marge. He was due home sometime next week, but I didn’t know when I’d see him, if I’d see him. I’d sent him a few emails but none were replied to. I’d tried everything I knew to do, and it was still radio silence. When he’d said “I can’t,” he really meant it. I had to respect that.