I first saw Teddy online.  He was featured in a photo outdoors, his black coat contrasting with bright green summer grass.  He was handsome, I thought, and gave off an aura of acceptance. He had been found wandering with another dog in a Midwest state, eating out of dumpsters and trash cans, just focused on surviving.  When he was approached by someone intent on rescuing him, he proved to be gentle and allowing. 

Teddy was my first rescue dog.  I saw his picture and felt that tug of connection right away.  I had recently moved into my house, knowing it wouldn’t feel like a real home unless there was a dog in it.  I saw him in my mind’s eye, a medium size dog, maybe a Labrador retriever, with a happy go lucky personality.  It’s hard to tell some things from a small picture on a web page.

On his gotcha day, I drove to a neighboring state alone in my small Toyota Corolla.  The transport van was late, having hit traffic and other delays. One puppy after another was brought out from the van and put in the arms of very happy adopters.  When Teddy came out, I saw this tall, very large and lanky, rough-coated black dog who greeted me with a polite aloofness.  I was told how well behaved he was and how patient he was.  Most of the van had been filled with un-housebroken puppies, who fussed, slept and had many accidents all along the way. 

He politely waited for me to hand over the paperwork, accept his things and then he tugged me away.  After a short walk to stretch his legs, he jumped right in my car nearly filling the back seat.  Somehow he knew he was putting that part of his life behind him.

We arrived at my home well after dark, toured the house and back yard and waited for my son to come home after his shift ended at 11 pm. My son arrived while Teddy was exploring the house, sniffing, listening and checking every corner.  We took him out to the deck and the three of us sat there in the summer dark for a while.  Teddy went to explore the back yard his black coat disappearing in the night. He didn’t reappear.  “I think I left the gate open,” my son exclaimed and we both raced to find our new dog.  My heart pounding, I thought how a black dog can easily disappear into the night and not know how to find his way home. Then I heard my son say, “Come here, Mom.  You have to see this.”

And there in the driveway, was Teddy.  He was sitting patiently next to my small car, waiting to get in again.  After only a few hours and one car ride, he had decided this was his car and his family.  He wasn’t leaving.

He came from the rescue with the name Saint, which he never thought was his.  I think his Midwest foster thought it described his personality and in many ways it did.  He was gentle, patient and loving.  He was willing to try what we asked him, whether it was a simple thing like sitting or a new thing like “leave it.”  He listened intently to everything, learning our voices and absorbing our intentions. He was fierce in his concentration.

When I introduced him to people or talked about him to coworkers, they asked, “Why, is he called Saint?  Is he a Saint Bernard?”   I would explain that someone thought it described his personality, but it sounded lame, even to me. 

My son and I each came up with a short list of names we liked and thought would fit him.  I looked online for popular boy names while he pulled from names he liked in movies and favorite books.  We took him outside, sat him on the deck and tried out a succession of names.  I called him over saying, “Riley” but he just looked at me.  I even made smacking noises but he ignored those.  My son tried a different name, then another. Our black dog sat there politely, wagging just the end of his tail, waiting to see what we would do next.  Then I tried my favorite name, which I’d saved until last.  “Teddy!” I called.  He pricked his ears, and came over looking at me steadily.  “That’s the one, “I half shouted.  My son tried it too.  “Teddy!” he called and the dog padded over to him.  We’d picked a name, or rather, Teddy had picked his own name.  

We tried it a few more times, just to be sure.  Or rather, for us to be sure, because he had made his own decision and didn’t waver a bit. This was his home, that was his name and all was well.