автор(ы): By Susan McCullough

When I was in my late twenties and living alone, I developed a serious case of maternal longing. Everywhere 1 looked, I seemed to encounter adorable infants: cute babies, wiggly babies, giggly babies, sweetsmelling babies. I loved cuddling them. I loved talking to them. And I wanted one—badly. This longing gripped me back in the late 1970s, when social disapproval of unwed mothers was pretty high. I wasn’t ready to deal with such disapproval, even to ease my baby hunger. And even if I’d been emotionally ready to thumb my nose at social conventions, my finances dictated that I follow a different course. Simply put, I didn’t have the money to raise a child alone. So I headed to the local animal shelter and got myself a dog The canine in question was an adorable ragamuffin of a mixed poodle. But even at the tender age of eight months, she had already had a murky past. Her previous owner had been an elderly person who’d told the staff at the shelter that she didn’t have time to care for the dog. But, judging from the way the dog cringed when confronted with the umbrella I’d brought with me, I suspected the animal had been abused.

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