I found “Max’s” picture on the shelter website. It was a no-kill shelter unlike the utilitarian kennel run by our county where I had picked up Shadow.

The shelter listed him as ‘under one year old’ and ‘shepherd mix.’ His chocolate brown eyes gleamed with delight. He had what we call a “cookie face”, a doggy smile, like when you hold up a cookie and they grin at you, tail wagging. It was love at first sight.

I texted the shelter director. I asked if Max was still available. It was quite a drive there and I wanted to be sure before I made the round trip to meet the dog that he met my criteria.

I asked what breed he was. She assured me he was a ‘shepherd mix.’ I asked if he was good with cats. She said he’d been around cats and exhibited curiosity and playfulness, but they couldn’t vouch for him being great with cats.

I called the shelter and spoke with a volunteer to set up an appointment to meet Max. I explained to her what I was looking for in a dog, just as I had with the Animal Control officers many years ago when I’d found Shadow. “Come down and meet him,” they urged. And so I did.

One rainy afternoon, my husband and I drove to the shelter. A volunteer led us back to Max’s cage. The cage tag listed him as a shepherd mix, too.

When the volunteer led him out of the cage and left us to get to know the dog, I caught my husband’s eye. He was frowning.

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t you think he looks…different?”

“Different than what?”

“A shepherd mix.”

“What do you think he is?”

“A pit bull. Not pure bred, but definitely a lot of pit bull in there.”

I frowned. I knew I couldn’t handle — and did not want — a strong breed like a pit bull, especially not around my cats. I know pit bulls can make nice pets. But they aren’t for me.

I turned to the shelter volunteer. “I talked with X, the shelter supervisor, and specifically told her I wouldn’t look at the dog if he was a pit bull mix. She assured me he’s a shepherd mix, probably an Australian shepherd or something.”

“Oh yes,” the volunteer said. “It says right here, shepherd mix.”

“But what do you think he is?”

She wouldn’t say. She just chatted about what a sweet dog he was and how our experience as prior dog owners made us the perfect adopters.

The more we walked Max around and looked at him from multiple angles, the more he looked like a pit bull.

But I’d fallen in love. Just like the woman who falls in love with the bad boy, I fell in love with the wrong dog.

Assured by everyone we met at the shelter that he met all my criteria, I convinced myself it would be fine. I signed the papers to take him home as a foster with the option of adopting him.

As we were leaving, I thought to ask, “Has he gotten any of his vaccinations yet?”

The girl at the desk opened the folder on Max and made a photocopy of the veterinarian’s intake report.

There, at the top of the page, the veterinarian who had examined max listed him as “pit bull mix.”

I should have walked out then and there, but I didn’t. Max came home with me.

He hadn’t even been off leash yet when he attacked his first cat. He lunged at one cat on the porch. He went after a second cat in the kitchen — still on leash. The third cat he lunged for leaped onto the mantle and smashed a very expensive item. I could barely control the dog. He had more strength behind his lunges than my 65 pound German shepherd.

He was more dog than I could handle. He was awful with cats.

More importantly, the expert attending him had assessed him as a pit bull…and I felt I couldn’t trust the dog around my cats. His initial reaction was more aggressive than playful and curious, as the shelter volunteer had assured me. And he was stronger, more dominant, than I had been led to believe by the people I’d spoken with at the shelter.