In 2008, a flea-ridden, muddy, matted “fluffy” pup was being honked at by a truck in the street. I got the little hot mess to follow me and my 10-year-old Jack Russell home, where I offered her food and water. She would have none of it. Cranky over her close brush with disaster, she pouted behind the couch for one hour until I made her come out.

I posted signs around the neighborhood, placed ads in the paper, and contacted the local shelter. Meanwhile, she had a bath and a trim. She seemed rather grateful to hang out with me and the Jack Russell. But surprisingly, no one claimed the little dog.

I also noticed that signs in a certain part of the neighborhood had been taken down. I replaced them, only to find them gone again a few hours later. But still no one called. It dawned on me that perhaps someone wanted this little pup gone. I looked at her and she stared back. Who would want her gone? She wondered the same thing.

True, she had been flea-ridden and muddy with tangles in her beautiful overgrown curls. She had been in desperate need of a pedicure, and she could have stood to gain a few pounds. She had the worst houseguest manners ever. But none of that was HER fault. So I took her to the vet, where she received her shots, a clean bill of health, and an age estimation: 9-10 months.

Within a couple of weeks, with no one stepping forward, the Jack Russell and I went to work on teaching the fluffy mutt how to be a member of a family. As I stared at the two of them discussing matters one day, I realized she needed a name. As a fan of a certain popular HBO series, I tried a name on for size: “Carrie Bradshaw!” I called. The little furball’s ears perked up and she looked at me. The full name just fit. Since then, Carrie Bradshaw has been right by my side, my truest, best friend.

Story submitted by Kim from Pasadena, California.