“No sense exhausting the bitch’s resources on a pup that shouldn’t be bred,” she said briskly.

“Wait!” I said, and stayed my mother’s hand when she reached for the dapple. “I’ll take her.”

Mumma stared.

I dropped my gaze, ashamed of my wayward eye, but I couldn’t stop myself from arguing. “You always say I don’t get enough exercise. Walking a dog will be good for me.”

Mumma couldn’t dispute the principle, but picked up the puppy anyway. “Well, you don’t want this one. You want the sable.”

All my life, Mumma had told me what I didn’t want. “Oh, you don’t want those earrings,” she’d say. “They’ll draw attention to your eyes.” Oh, you don’t want that dress. It will make you look like a stick. Oh, you don’t want eggs for breakfast. You want oatmeal. It’s better for you in cold weather. Well, I didn’t want oatmeal. I never wanted oatmeal. I hated the stuff, but I choked it down, all winter long, because Mumma put it in front of me and told me that was what I wanted.

Suddenly, and I cannot tell you why, a determination came over me like I don’t know what! I did not want that puppy’s perfectly lovely red sister or her handsome sable brother. No, I wanted the defective little black-and-tan. I wanted her ferociously, indignantly, unbendingly—blue dapple, kinked tail, and all.

Mumma was just as determined to save me from my own bad judgment. “Agnes, you’re not making any sense” became “This is a mistake. That pup is inferior” and finally a tearful “I am only trying to guide you, Agnes. There’s no reason for you to speak to me in that tone.”

Nevertheless, and for the first time in my life, I dared insist and I got my way. I named the pup Rosie. Before the day was over, I was so in love, it was difficult to leave her, even to go to sleep.

The plan was for Mumma to raise Rosie until she was housebroken.