Introducing God

God is a lean, scruffy-looking Wolfhound with a crooked tale and big ears. He is missing his left back leg. Phoebe has to be careful when she calls him God. It's OK, when no one's around, to scratch him behind the ears and say, "I love you, God," or to pat her thigh and say, "Come on, God, let's go for a walk." But she can't just stand at the gate, or near the street, and yell, "Here, God!" Not even at the Dog Park. It's a public place, after all, and people can get easily offended.

At the pound, where she got him, they said his name was "Butch." Which Phoebe found amusing. But he had such a wise and long-suffering look on his face that the name that came naturally to her mind, the one that just popped out of her mouth whenever he sat on her feet, or leaned up against her leg, was "God." 

She realized, soon enough, how problematic the name was. For example, the receptionist at the vet wouldn't write it down.

"No, really, his name is God," she'd said. The woman didn't like it at all. Finally, she shook her head, muttered "Christ" under her breath, and wrote "Unknown." Which Phoebe considered as an alternative for a moment, but decided it would be wrong.

"His name is God," Phoebe told the vet, when she finally got in to see him. He was a kindly, Marcus Welby type and didn't seem to mind. 

"I've heard worse," he said.

The people at the pound said that God was at least eight years old. "You sure his name's not Methuselah," the vet laughed when he heard that. "These big dogs don't usually live more than six or seven years. His teeth are pretty much shot, but his heart's still good. How'd he lose his leg?"

Phoebe didn't know. He'd been rounded up with a pack of strays that were living near the zoo. The dogs hadn't bothered anybody, but the pack was getting bigger and the Park Police were nervous. All the smaller dogs had already been adopted by the time Phoebe got there. It wouldn't have mattered. The minute she saw him, Phoebe knew she wanted God.