Many have urged me to write a “bad-luck biography” of the unlikely, maddening events that transpire in my life. And I would, but I’m convinced everyone just assumes I make this stuff up for laughs.

I WISH! These almost daily flukes are not funny at the time, with no need to even embellish. One such perfect storm cost me the possible adoption of two different best friends in two months.

After I posted my dearly-departed Trina tribute, I noticed, “Please save Bruno … soon to be euthanized …” accompanied by a video of a gorgeous, white pit-cross playing with toys. Confused since our Cody shelter is no-kill, I realized it was posted by friend Olga Troxel knowing I was dogless, on behalf of her friend from Alamosa, Colorado, Sherri Trujillo.

We began corresponding, and within days, Sherri and her two teenage daughters — all longtime shelter volunteers — were on their way with Bruno for a 12-hour drive, two-day adoption trial. The night they arrived at a dog-friendly motel, I raced down there like a small corgi in heat with pockets full of treats and a heart full of hope.

After two hours of successful foreplay (with Bruno, I mean) we agreed to meet at the Cody dog park the next day before the big cat-test at my dump. While there, some pesky guy kept calling, wanting me to stop at his mother’s house they were shingling, just for a few quick tips.  

After a long romp at the park, we agreed Bruno should ride with me for a little alone time and the gals would follow, stopping briefly for my roofing tutorial. Exiting my idling Camaro, I told Bruno, “I’ll be right back, buddy.”

And then I got bit … by the legendary “Doug Luck.” I was gone only 10 minutes and when I returned, I couldn’t help but notice an empty Camaro and space where Sherri’s SUV had been. What-the??? Fears raced like a greyhound — Did Bruno choke on the steak bone bribe I’d given him? Were they all carjacked on my watch? Sherri wasn’t answering my frantic calls, so I drove home alone and perplexed.

An hour later, I got the telephone explanation: Bruno had jumped out my window, running full steam down Alger Avenue with neighborhood dogs barking, and three hysterical women racing through unfamiliar streets.  

Back at the motel with Bruno secured, a still-shaken Sherri called Olga, who left work to go console her. Rushing to her with outstretched arms, Bruno again misread every sign and bit Olga on the hip. Nothing critical, but the deal was blown; Bruno never met my kitties. I sensed Sherri blamed me, and they were all gone the next morning without a goodbye. Farewell Bruno, we hardly knew ye.

Fast forward a week night when I drove to Powell for a 8-month-old Pyrenees. Porter was loved by Emily and her boyfriend, but once again a family dog with seniority voted (with his teeth) “nay” to a rookie sharing the small living space.  

Leaving town, I swung by Dave and Cindy Beemer’s to show off my gorgeous new friend. Per usual, Dave’s long-winded loitering lingered as I urged, “Put a cork in it, Curly. I’ve got a new dog and an open window.” You know: “Fool me twice …”

You guessed it: I arrived at my car with nothing but white upholstery hairs in sight. Rushing to the street while cussing Dave, I heard him say, “There’s a big white dog right here in my yard” There was Porter just exploring and sniffing the same dog urine I had stopped to sniff on my way in.

I apologized to Dave and several times during the long, visually-impaired ride to Cody, a hyper Porter suddenly relocated to my lap, completely blinding my one contact lens eye. Nearly sending us careening into oncoming traffic, I kept ’er at 45 the rest of the way.

Short story long, it was another foster failure over 24 hours in which neither of us slept. I caught a few catnaps, interrupted each time by 8-month, 75-pound Porter stepping on my head to launch off the couch from the non-exit end. We could’ve worked around that little problem; I’d have started sleeping in a helmet and worked off his unbridled energy.

In fact, the next day, after two furious hours at the dog park, Porter instantly fell into a couch sleep so sound, I literally had to shake him awake when Emily arrived to retrieve him. I hope the big, lovable lug understands it wasn’t me; it was the cats. Traumatized and scattering in all directions, they had no idea this stampeding, gentle giant intended no malice. But at his size and barely out of elementary school, this couch/bed isn’t big enough for the six of us.

That is my tale of dog woe, proving the Lord giveth and he taketh away. But when we least understand why, up pops the answer. After two months of trying to rescue an aging border collie living life alone on a chain, my cash offer was finally accepted. It’s now crystal clear why I wasn’t meant to have Bruno or Porter. “Gabriel” needed me and I needed him. At our ages, it’s an October/December romance made in heaven.