Featured prominently in my novel, Solitary Refinement, is Snaggletooth, bedraggled mongrel and beloved dog of our protagonist, Angela Morgan.

While everyone in the exclusive little hamlet of Bryn Mawr is purchasing designer dogs for an incalculable amount of money, Angela adopts Snaggletooth, a hard luck case from the Humane Society. She is constantly at odds with her neighbors and the HOA over her galumphy, ill-mannered dog with the questionable pedigree and distinct underbite.

In the following excerpt, Angela contemplates the reasons that her dog has been ostracized and envisions a complete makeover for her canine companion.

“Sadly, I believe I have stifled my dog’s creativity and stunted his status in the doggie community by saddling him with the moniker, Snaggletooth. I dream of filing a name change on beaglezoom.com, followed by the purchase of a trendy studded collar and metrosexual leather jacket. I believe this courageous move would give him renewed purpose, sending his social status as well as his self-esteem soaring. In a perfect world, my reinvented dream dog, 3-Under-Par, would be booked solidly through the end of the year with doggie play dates.”

Although Snaggletooth is fictional, he was based on one of our foster dogs, Patch. Patch was a stubborn Beagle/Basset mix who inherited the worst tendencies of both breeds. He had a perpetually confused look on his grizzled little face, and his upper lip curled under, no doubt repelled by the way his teeth protruded.

Patch came to us as most dogs do—without warning and little information. He was a sanctuary case. An owner turn-in, claiming she was “allergic.” What she was allergic to was his age, his behavior, and the litany of diseases that he carried around in his tired old body. He was thirteen and given approximately three-weeks to live. We were asked to take him in and show him love during his final days.

After years of canine rescue, we’ve had innumerable houseguests come through our doors. They came in the form of fosters, sanctuary cases and emergency abuse cases. Some stayed overnight. Some never left. They each had special needs, be it post-surgical care, behavioral issues, disease riddled bodies, or souls so badly damaged it was hard to imagine how they would ever trust again.

There were dogs that touched our lives and our hearts. Then then there was Patch, who was just plain memorable.

Rescue is hard. It’s difficult to reconcile the pain and neglect that humans are capable of inflicting upon other beings. Yet with all of the difficulty also comes great joy. Celebration over small successes and the satisfaction of seeing a dog come out of their shell and into their own; that moment when their big personality comes out—the one hidden beneath scars, sickness and fear.

Witnessing these transformations is nothing short of miraculous. After persistent training, there is that blissful moment when you finally see it click and know they understand. Whether home schooled or professionally trained, each dog enjoys learning, feeling useful and pleasing their human.

Except Patch. Patch had no desire to please anyone but himself.

Without the benefit of physical or underground fencing, Patch learned to walk our property line. Because of his mental deficiencies, he would begin circling the house when launched outside and continued orbiting until we went out to retrieve him. Patch stayed within the boundaries of the yard unless the wind blew, throwing him off course. Then, anything was possible.

One day, I realized that Patch was no longer orbiting. I followed his worn trail around the house—no Patch. My mind raced with different scenarios. He was too disgusting to be eaten by coyotes or cougars and too heavy to be snagged by a hawk. I ran through the neighborhood. I went tramping through the woods and muddy creek bed. I drove up and down streets fearing the worst, when my cell rang.

“We have Patch,” said the woman at the shelter.

His arrest report registered the following events: Old Dog lumbered around house. Was blown off course by wind. Old Dog wandered three streets over and was picked up by neighbor. Neighbor placed Old Dog in Jaguar, propped him up in window and turned on heat to warm him. Neighbor called 911.

I surmise that Patch saw me frantically driving past while he laughed, comfortably enveloped in luxury, paw up, a distinct middle finger held high.

The police arrived and reminded the Good Samaritan that a cold, lost Beagle is not an emergency. Still, they put foul-smelling Patch in the squad car, transported him to animal control and then to the Humane Society. Patch went from orbiting around the house to the inside of a Jag, to a ride in a patrol car and back to the shelter—in under an hour.

Poor terminal Patch. He did not live for three weeks. Patch lived for three years. There was only one thing left to do. We adopted him.

We spent thousands of dollars on medical procedures and medication. Patch had heartworm, Cushing’s disease, arthritis, a brain tumor, and had his tail amputated at some point during his long career of being a dog. He was deaf, had nasty habits and breath that could peel paint off the walls.

When Patch began having seizures and wearing diapers, we knew our time with him was coming to an end. The decision to let go is never easy—even for the nastiest dog that ever roamed the earth. Nonetheless, we made a promise to care for Patch and not let him suffer.

Just three years earlier, we could also not let him languish in a caged cell as time ticked away to certain demise. Old, infirm Patch packed more living into three years than he probably had in his former life. He kept us on our toes and kept our home out of House Beautiful magazine.

As I was on the floor holding Patch after a brief but intense seizure, he looked up and his tired eyes met mine. A certain knowing passed between us; a sign of surrender that tells you it’s time. Then he licked me.

Patch was never one to show affection, and I’d like to think that’s what it was. In reality, there was probably a molecular trace of food on my hand, his Beagle genes triggering synapses in his addled mind: Eat the hand. Eat the hand, now!

Patch moved languidly at a sloth-like pace, unless he smelled food. Then he would break into a dead run, as if entering the last stretch of the Indy 500 or sliding into home plate during the World Series. Gluttonous Patch was so intensely food-driven that he once shredded the dryer vent—and ate it.

Infirmities aside, Patch was difficult and vindictive and for three long years, we yelled a constant stream of expletives out of frustration. Though in spite of everything, I take comfort in knowing that we gave Patch the best life possible. We showed him love. We gave him a family. And rough old Patch gave us stories to pass on long after he’s gone.