After three sleepless nights, Dave Pevear found himself on the kitchen floor next to Juneau.

The building once housed a Honda dealership. Four years ago, I bought a Civic there. It has run for 85,000 miles without requiring a trip to the vet. This I saw as a healthy sign for a 4-month-old terrier-mix too frightened to take one step toward us.

We took Juneau home from the Northeast Animal Shelter in Salem on Sunday and I've had 12 hours sleep since. "Terrier" mix was written on the yellow card taped to her cage. But the Northeast Animal Shelter is not the Mayflower Society Home. Juneau's genealogy is anyone's creative guess.

"Shelly" (her dog-pound name) was rescued while roaming Puerto Rico in October, we were told. She had been at the shelter two weeks. I sensed the kind woman at the shelter subtlety trying to

After three sleepless nights, Dave Pevear found himself on the kitchen floor next to Juneau.

discourage us. She wanted to be certain we could withstand the psychological strain of adopting the black-and-white bundle of bones trembling before us. Five other puppies at the shelter were playful and cute, their eyes smiling "Take me home." Juneau only had cute going for her. Her terrified eyes said, "Kindly let me be." There is a good chance this dog will never be anything but terrified, the woman told us. She assured us that if nobody took the dog, one of the workers or volunteers at the shelter would adopt her.

Juneau was the sorriest sight at the shelter that day. Unless you count the cat without hind feet. Or the sight of me, my wife and youngest son undertaking interaction with Juneau after the panic-eyed puppy was

dragged from her cage to meet us. Our torrent of charm and doggie talk evoked more trembles.
But she was cute.

My wife Maura named our new puppy Juneau, after the city in Alaska, for no other reason than she likes the name. My wife is no passionate pet person, but is an oncology nurse, possessor of abundant compassion, except when vacuuming dog hairs out of the living-room rug. She then gets that look Patton got while sweeping across France.

Our previous dog, Hayley, a long-haired mutt people thought looked like a Rhodesian ridgeback, died of lymphoma last April. Her brownish hair is still embedded in our hearts and rugs.

"My heart goes out to this dog," my wife told the woman at the shelter as we pointed at Juneau trying to hide in her cage. "I feel she is unleashing my nursing instincts."

Being short-haired no doubt helped Juneau shiver into my wife's heart.

I carried Juneau into our house and steadied her skinny legs on the kitchen floor. Juneau took two quick steps. Right into a corner by the breezeway door and the refrigerator. There she trembled.

We could not open the refrigerator door with Juneau sitting there, so she had to move or the Pevears would starve.

Juneau was nudged deeper into the house. She soon ran away ... to behind the Christmas tree in the living room. When we left the room, she jumped on the couch. A football fan! I knew this dog was a keeper.

My younger daughter, Annie, the one who had pleaded for a new dog and offered to quit school to care for it, took off on a ski trip to New Hampshire. My wife on Tuesday drove to Philadelphia with my youngest son, Matt, to visit our granddaughter. On New Year's Eve it was pretty much Juneau and me and C-SPAN's reruns of Barack Obama's campaign speeches.

I had not slept on the floor early New Year's morning since being single and drunk. But there I was on the kitchen floor trying to sleep next to the crate in which Juneau sat not sleeping. Whenever I quietly left the room, she howled.

I know. You're not supposed to give in. Establish your dominance. Be a pack leader. Let the beast howl until it realizes its howling does no good. But for such an adorable puppy that remains silent until the lights go out, Juneau is capable of summoning a screech from the darkest corner of hell.

After three sleepless nights interrupted by cleaning Juneau's messes in her crate, I felt like I had been water-boarded. I surrendered. When I became too cold on the floor, I released the hound from her crate and let her lie on my bed. My older daughter, Marybeth, has already sent an e-mail to Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer.

Juneau is still a frightened pup. But she is going to be a great dog. I don't think we are just imagining this. A few gentle tugs on her leash and she now walks a few laps of the yard. On New Year's Day she finally peed outside. That night, following perfunctory whines and howls, she slept five hours in her crate.

She has made me totally pathetic and I love it. Just before leaving for work yesterday morning, I screamed with the same joy as when each of my five children was born. Yes, Juneau finally pooped outside!