To begin, here are a few things to consider before adopting a three-legged dog:

1. Hands off the stump. Resist the urge and do not poke, tie things to, and or grab for the missing appendage. It seems to confuse your tripod, and probably brings back bad memories.

2. Like the neighbor who undresses in front of her window for all to see, and the crazy guy who walks around town yelling at no one in particular, your three legged dog will become a local celebrity. This means that:

a. You should always dress to impress when going out for walks. There is no such thing as "taking the dog out for a quick pee," because fifty people will stop you on the street and want to know what happened to your poor little dog's leg. So make sure you allot plenty of time for your walks and don't leave the house wearing green zit cream, because passersby will take note.

b. Have a story ready. When someone asks you about your dog's missing limb, it's good to make your story a little pitiful, but always end on a good note. It can't hurt to throw in something like, "Muffy is just fine now. She can run around and jump up same as before the accident," or something to that effect.

c. Carry Mace. Bums and weirdos tend to take a strong liking (or even worse, a strong disliking) to your canine companion. Upon spotting a mutant dog, these characters have a tendency to cry, yell insults, or follow you for blocks as if some sort of trance. Mace or some other form of self-defense may be necessary to keep overzealous crazies at bay.

3. Be prepared for a change in perspective. After spending lots of time with a tripod, four legs seem like too many. Try to refrain from gawking at quadrupeds as if they're freakish or greedy.

Losing a leg is possibly the best thing that can happen to a dog. Whereas your normal-looking dog rouses mild interest or amusement from strangers, you take off one little leg, and the same dog becomes an object of fascination, adoration, and sometimes revulsion. I never imagined the impact that one little gimp could have on me and the people around me. Every stump has a story to tell, and so here is the story of Three.

I met Three two years ago at an animal shelter. Going to a shelter is a weird experience altogether; it's like one of those reality dating shows on TV, where you walk down the line looking for your soul mate based only on first impression. Except kennels smell like pee. I spotted this one pathetic little dog, huddled in a ball and looking like some kind of stretched out Chihuahua, with a slender face, giant sad eyes, and enormous Yoda ears. She was in a dark and musty kennel alongside several other dogs, just sitting quietly while the rest of them barked and bounced frantically all over the place. Some dogs just have that blank ignorance-is-bliss way about them. Not this one. The way she sat there watching the other dogs make fools of themselves, she seemed to be making little mental notes to herself, calmly but critically. She looked like she had been crying, and at the sight of her I had a Grinch moment, where I realized that I actually have human emotions and I melted into a ball of sympathetic goo. As I crouched down to pet her through the wire fence, her ears shot up, and she stood up to greet me. "One... two... thr -- oh shit! I just fell for a three legged dog!" For a minute I just stood there and stared at that stump, just a little puff of fur where her left hind leg should have been. The last thing I wanted was a freak dog. I felt a flash of shame at the idea of adopting a tripod, of sharing my life with a "special needs" pet. But it was too late. Despite my superficial tendencies, despite my love of mocking any creature less-than-perfect, despite the fact that I was looking for an entire dog and not just part of one, I had already fallen for the little gimp and I couldn't go back on it now.

The dog came home with me a few days later (at which point I tactlessly changed her name from Dorita to Three), and from that moment on, I found myself immersed in some kind of cheesy dog-obsessed bliss. My world consisted of Three and me, and the rest of it all was an afterthought. I've heard that when you have kids, the focal point of your life shifts from you to your children. Well, kids aren't my thing, too many germs and boogers. But all of a sudden, this little 20 lb tripod dictated when I woke up, when I came home, and how I spent my free time. Could I be turning, dare I say, responsible?

Photo by Kate Tully

The knowing glance of a three legged dog.

The dog herself was not all that interesting. The only difference between her and the other dogs was that she had no hind leg to scratch with -- the stump would rotate feverishly but the itch remained (whenever possible, I would step in as surrogate leg. I could tell when I found the itchy spot because her stump would twitch faster and faster). Far more interesting than Three herself were people's reactions to Three. The first time I took her for a walk, I remember crossing the street, knowing that people in their cars were ogling her stump. I was mortified. I wanted to snatch her up like a football and run like hell with her tucked under my arms, so that she wouldn't have to be subjected to anyone's judgments.

But my stump-anxiety soon changed after someone stopped me on the street and asked how my dog had become "a three." After I told her the story -- stray dog in Puerto Rico, got hit by a car, rescued and rehabbed and eventually ended up at a shelter in Salem. The woman had this dopey pot-smoker grin on her face and said "What a special dog. That's so wonderful that you took her in." Suddenly I felt cool. As time passed, I got used to being stopped on the street by inquisitive neighbors, and I was amused by the constant comments that people whispered as soon as they walked past. I ignored the kids freaking out, pointing, or staring. Three didn't care if people gawked at her like a circus freak, so why should I? After a while it became fun to see people's reactions. On occasion, I'd have a friend walk the dog down a busy street. I'd walk behind them, about ten feet back, watching all the people do double-takes after passing the tripod. You'd be amazed how many pedestrians walk into poles, trash cans, and other people, trying to get another good look at a freak dog.

The only time Three became a hazard was when one of the many freaks of Boston would fixate on her. Most of the time they were harmless. One guy liked to make up songs about her as she hopped by on our evening walks. Another wino once stopped me on the T station platform (yes, dogs are allowed on the T) and, reeking of booze and urine, starting blubbering like a baby at the sight of her. With tears running down his face and snot dripping onto his upper lip, he kept repeating, "She's just so special. So so special." Kind of creepy. But then there were the hostile ones. On one occasion, a foul-smelling toothless gentleman took a seat next to Three and me on a crowded T train. It started with him asking about the stump, and then, fascinated, he proposed marriage. When I graciously declined his proposal he got furious and screamed "Why the fuck are you embarrassing me in front of all these people?" He grabbed my shoulder and just kept yelling about how cruel I was to reject and humiliate him. I got off at the next stop and walked the rest of the way instead, and since then have refrained from striking up a conversation with anyone who smells like a public toilet.

Three even controlled my social life. Or, I should say, she gave me a social life. Thanks to the dog, I acquired a number of friends and acquaintances in my neighborhood. I very quickly found myself in the shadow of my dog; her presence was so commanding that she actually made me more interesting. So what if no one knew me except as "Three's owner" (or as dog people would say, "Three's mom," which is just kind of creepy to non-dog people)? Maybe I should have been suspicious when people would invite me to parties and request that I bring my dog. I even took her to my job, where she became the official office dog and scored me points with the boss. All of this special treatment just because she was a tripod.

About a year after I adopted Three, she developed lymphoma, a particularly nasty form of cancer. I remember the day that I got the news. The vet told me that, left untreated, she'd have only four weeks to live. Not one to take bad news well, I proceeded to lose my shit that evening while sitting on the Red Line in a train packed full of attractive people. Then, in a final act of indignity, when I got off the T, everything turned bright green and I fainted as soon as I stepped onto the platform. I don't know how long I lay there like a corpse, but all I know is that waking up with your tear-soaked face pressed against the filthy T platform is not something I'd recommend.

I immediately started Three on chemo (believe it or not, there is such a thing as dog oncologists and dog chemo), which was another eye-opener for me. I never saw myself as someone who would pump a dog full of toxic chemicals just to keep her alive a little longer. I can barely decide whether to use the "special" or the "super" gasoline, so deciding the fate of another creature was beyond anything I wanted to deal with. But, the way I looked at it, she had been a stray in Puerto Rico for the first three years of her life, and I felt that she deserved more than just one year of the good life.

So from that point on, she became known as "the three-legged cancer dog" around town. And she did great with the chemo. Her whiskers fell out, one by one, but otherwise she looked and felt fine. No one even believed that she was sick; they all said I was full of shit. But I was always on edge, planning for "death day" and constantly wondering how it would go down, when it would happen, and how much of a mess I would be.

One morning in June, not even a month ago, I awoke to find Three sitting in a corner of the bedroom staring at the wall. I called to her and she didn't respond. Not even when I yelled "cookie" or "walk" (the only two words she ever responded to) right in front of her face. I knew we were fucked. Over the next 24 hours, every system in her body started to shut down. She couldn't stand up, her mouth hung open, and she was peeing like a madwoman. By the time I brought her to the vet, I wasn't even sure if she was still alive, because she was just a puddle of limbs in my arms. To see the life slip out of an animal so quickly is really trippy. And pretty miserable. But, just as I had made the choice to keep her alive for a year with injections and pills, I chose to end her life artificially with a quick injection, all in the name of humanity. It wasn't really peaceful, as I'd been told it would be. If anything it was quiet and awkward. I couldn't even focus on what was happening because I was so consumed by the silence. There were half a dozen people standing around her in the room as Three was given the injection, and there wasn't a single noise except for me occasionally trying to snuffle up all the snot my nose had been accumulating. I found myself unable to leave, as Three was lying there dead, frantically petting a corpse. How is that peaceful? As I walked out of the room, I felt so guilty leaving her there. I felt like I'd done everything right and I still fucked it up. Welcome to the real world, Kate, it blows.

So now Three's back. She's a handful of sand in an ugly little tin and I'm not quite sure what to do with it. I think the dread of losing her and seeing her suffer was more upsetting than the actual loss and the aftermath. Now I just need a new hobby. The question that I always get is whether I'll be getting another dog. For now, I think it's a better idea to try people instead. I have two years of socializing to make up for, and maybe it's not a bad idea to make some friends without a three-legged crutch. Eventually I'll find another dog, but I've been spoiled by Three. Normal dogs just seem kind of lackluster. Sometimes I wonder if Three just served some sort of selfish need for me to be different and interesting. I feel as if she brought out the best and the worst in me. She forced me to prioritize, to act like an adult and to face the fact that no matter how much love and money you sink into something, you can't reverse the fact that death will creep in and it will make you feel like shit. She also brought out the neurotic, overprotective, and obsessive tendencies that had been lying dormant inside me. It was quite a trip, but pretty exhausting too. So until another gimp comes hopping my way, I'll just enjoy setting my alarm for a half hour later, going on my walks alone, and not having to worry about marriage proposals from bums.