I want a dog. Not our dog, not his dog—my dog. My dog died Mother's Day weekend. A 15-year-old English setter. Soft coat, expressive eyes, you know the ones, sad, droopy, pink rimmed, but they could be happy, too. A run through the woods, digging a hole to the center of the earth or on the hunt for mystery creatures – her tail moving in circles – she was air borne. Dirt, branches, bushes hanging from her “feathers,” as they are called in breed books. She pranced in like a woman who had rolled in the grass, signs of her playfulness still attached.

I want a dog. Not our dog, not his dog—my dog. She knew everything. Yes the dog that left here on the shoulder of the vet, at peace –I know it. She was so tired. Couldn't get up and down the steps, couldn't hold herself up any longer. Just one more walk through the woods...

I want a dog. Not our dog, not his dog—my dog. I don't want to share. I need the secret handshake and the knowing look when I don't feel well or need to cry. That's why I did what I did that day. Though I didn't know it then. She was supposed to be the family dog. But just her litter tag, Sweetie, pretty much sealed the deal. A house full of boys, they'd probably never want to call her name.

Suzanne Kahn’s company, SGN Public Relations & Marketing, is based in Boston, Mass. She is a summer, fall and a few times in the winter resident of Camden.

I want a dog. Not our dog, not his dog—my dog. He'll put treats in his pocket. Break the rules when I'm not looking. Who can resist being fed from the table? It won't be a level playing field. If he goes back to work I'd have a fighting chance. Oh so what did I do that I didn't realize would make her mine?

No one was looking. No one knew when I went that day to bring her home. No conversation. Which breed? Shelter or rescue? What season? Our old cats were to be gone. I was totally stealth in my maneuvers.

The husband at the time stopped speaking to me. The boys slept in the kitchen near her crate, but Sweetie and I had already signed a pact. It was more than love at first sight. It was — you have my back, and I so have yours. That beautiful back that needed endless brushing, and of course scratching those itches that made her purr. We both knew it was the beginning of a partnership that would be tested, but never broken.

I want a dog. Not our dog, not his dog—my dog. She followed me everywhere. As she got older and hurt, I'd beg her not to come after me as I ran down the stairs to put the wash in the dryer. "I'm coming right back up," but she insisted. Sometimes I'd just stay where I was, knowing she could not be stopped. I did instead. Arranging my day for the least amount of trips to ease her arthritic hips.

Sweetie—everyone knew her name because she was. A walk across the park, her dignified head held high, her silkiness invited passersby to ask, to stop, to wonder. Yes actually that is her name, yes an English setter – nope not in the city – she moved from Connecticut - well she has Maine...

Ah Maine. Sweetie would smell the air as we came down the dirt road and know what was next. We worried in the beginning. New to so many smells, some animals that could stink, sting and fight back, but she never got skunked or took on a porcupine. It was mostly about running, and running and running — till her tongue would hang from her mouth covered in dirt and her very white coat was hidden in mud and brush.

It was why I could be here. Surrounded by history and old lives, Sweetie smiling through the woods or laying exhausted on the rug made it all bearable. I knew I was making her happy. Free at last from a leash and endless walks on city streets — this place spoke to her. But not to me. Here with her, I felt her release. A bird out of a cage, but absolutely knowing where the window was — only returning to rest. And so she did. She took her last breath here and sometimes I think she took that deep exhale, that after-the-perfect-day-finally-in-bed sigh with her.

Oh I know. Wow this is a beautiful place. A lake, an open house, lots of toys...my husband's soul food. But I need a dog. Not our dog, not his dog, my dog—the one that makes this home her own with me.