The year was 2001. My four children ranged in age from 2 to 9-years-old, and I decided we needed more fur in our house. The two cats, three birds and bowl of (often dead) fish were not enough. We needed a dog.

I went about this in the only way I knew how, having failed miserably with three rescue dogs in prior years, I turned to the Internet. The rescue dogs were failures on my part, not theirs.  Still, the Internet?? Really?

Onward to pet.com I went, and there was a brilliant little quiz, called “What dog is best for your family?” I took the quiz – all 106 questions – and was met with an answer that left me stymied. The best dog for your family is a whippet.

“A what?” I asked the computer screen. “A whippet,” it screamed back at me.  Not only was this a guaranteed best pet for us, but the whippet had scored a whopping 98% match to our ever-growing family.

Not one to question the brilliance of the Internet, I went in search of google images and pages devoted to whippets. I fell in love. I loved that they were fast and could keep up with my three sons under 9, and would be gentle with my then 2-year-old daughter. I loved that they were homebodies and didn’t shed much, I loved the long faces (not that much different than a llamas if you look really close), and I loved that I could pick one out before it was born from a local breeder.

The phone calls began. I called a local breeder and informed him that I would like the first born female, non show dog, of the next litter. I waited with bated breath to tell my husband my master plan, and my kids would be soooo surprised when a dog moved in.

Fast forward six months, and the call comes in. “Your whippet has arrived,” the disembodied voice said from my machine. “Please arrive Saturday morning at 10 to retrieve her.”

We turned up – all six of us – with a small box and a dream.

The catch, she was show quality – not something I wanted to get into – so we paid the $500 fee with a promise to give her lots of milk and love, and headed for home.

I had the privilege of holding this small bundle of love. She shook all the way home as the kids bantered on in the back about who would get to sleep with her that night. Who would feed her in the morning, and the coupe begin as to who would own the dog dubbed Snickers in honor of the first llama that ever kissed me.

Snickers, the whippet, had other ideas. She decided from the moment she laid eyes on me that I was her person. Yes, she would protect the kids – all four of them. Yes, she would tolerate the abuse young children are capable of bestowing, and yes, she would tolerate the interloper on the other side of my king size bed, as long as he understood, in no uncertain terms, that I was hers and she was mine.

To say we bonded is an understatement. Having never loved a dog, I was rather overwhelmed by the depth of my emotions. She followed (and follows) me everywhere I go. She patiently lies in wait at the front door for me whether I am gone a day or a month, and she never fails to turn up by my side when I most need her. As I type this, she is asleep on my feet.

Snickers is my girl. She is an angel among dogs, and she can outrun any man, beast or car if given the right motivation – bacon will usually do the trick. She loves peanut butter and cheese, and most of all, me.

Since this wonderful ball of whippet fur has turned up in my life, I have been open to so many things. A spirit dog is the perfect word for her. She has taken me places I never thought I would go, and loves me no matter what. Because of her love, we have since added a greyhound to our tribe, and we would absolutely love another whippet. The happiest news of all, whippets have a life span of 18 years, so Snickers is likely to be around at least five more entertaining us with her antics and quietly protecting her sheep with invisible fur – my babies.

Old fashioned luck be damned. This time, the Internet got it right.