I wasn’t there, but the story goes like this: She was wandering the streets of Los Angeles, dirty, with no collar. Bonds were made. Common sense was put on hold. Now the eldest son, who had flown to California to visit a cousin, returned with, to our surprise, a dog.

What kind of dog?

That was debatable.

At about 12 pounds, she was too big to be a Chihuahua, too small for a rat terrier. A Rat-huaha. I guess? We drove directly from JFK airport to the nearest animal humane society. But when we arrived, the tears were heavy and the dog intent. She stayed.

The son named her Lisa, as people in our house are apt to do in an attempt to soften my resolve in the face of questionable acquisitions, hence a 42-foot boat named Lisa, but that’s another story. I was allowed one concession and that was she should be called Lili, a nick-name from college.

The furthest thing from my mind was to make that dog mine. She vomited in the car, peed in my boots, and ate the expensive cheese. I left the door open (on purpose), never put up a fence, she undid every collar, no harness could hold her, she was always free to go, but she never did. A year later we moved.

We stumbled into Connecticut with three young boys, far too many boxes, and a dog. We tried to figure things out, hung pictures, bought milk, and kept the pricey rugs unrolled. On the first day of kindergarten, the bus arrived carrying the superintendent of schools on a goodwill mission to personally greet each incoming student. When this woman reached out to take my youngest son’s hand, the dog nipped her. I was so sorry it happened, but that nip said what I couldn’t, “That’s my boy. And I will want him back.”

We installed a padded shelf by a window so Lili could watch our comings and goings. Whether you arrived bearing a trophy or dragging your books, she was there, and that was good. She did not get taller, need bigger shoes, change octaves, or care what others thought of her. That, too, was good. She was the subject of writing assignments, art projects, and a reliable doorbell when we had none. Cousins were born, grandparents died. There were times we thought we had nothing in common, but we did. The dog.

She does things a dog shouldn’t do: Drinks coffee every morning, tackles raccoons twice her size, buries pizza in the garden, and sleeps in. She makes us laugh when humor sometimes feels like a distant relative.

Recently, we returned to JFK airport with the dog and the boy, now a man, who found her abandoned on the streets of LA. He got on a plane to Nicaragua. She stayed. This week we watched the middle-son walk across a high school stage and head off for a year with AmeriCorps. The youngest has a summer job fixing cars, so he can go places, too.

Today, I am thinking back to our first few friendless days in Connecticut, when we felt unhinged and uncertain. We were at an orchard picking apples. The useful monotony of the day was broken by boys shrieking. The dog had run into the road, a 18-wheeler was barreling down on her. “Close your eyes!” I ordered “Don’t watch!” but we all did. She did not dart or dodge, but lay down perfectly flat. The power of the truck caused the ground to rumble under my feet and right up my chest, but when the dust cleared, there she was, unharmed. She jumped into my arms, licking my face, then looked at me as if to say, “I got this mama, everything’s going to be just fine.” The parable of “The Rat-hauha in the Road” is legend among us.

We really don’t know how old she is, but she’s at least 13. That’s how long we’ve know her. She’s never been seriously ill; the vet proclaims her “fit-as-a-fiddle.” I apologize to those who think a dog consuming coffee, living off-leash, and eating pizza is irresponsible, but this dog knows what she wants and, for better or worse, she wants us. My only regret is that I have never actually said to her how grateful I am; that while everything kept changing, she stayed.

Lisa Nee of Madison is a writer and president of Allen/Nee Productions. She writes an occasional column, Such is Life, for Shore Publishing.