Rescue dogs: It’s a sock eating, crotch sniffing world. We just live in it.

This is Nova. She’s in the car where she nose smudged the window.

The fact she’s here at all is a miracle that’s repeated every day at rescue shelters.

Her story starts with a phone call from the Vet’s office a while back.

The caller said we could pick up Lucy.

A small Boxer /Yellow Lab, Lucy’s brown eyes had black rings we called her eyeliner. Of course we would pick her up.

Lucy caught balls on a running leap over her shoulder like Willie Mays. She chewed up a puppy training manual. Because she was a bored puppy.

She once ate our daughter’s sock. We called her costly operation her sockectomy.

Eleven years before the Vet’s phone call, newborn Lucy crawled over yapping siblings at the shelter to lick our eager fingers. We had just put to sleep our wonderful Black Labrador Retriever mix, Tessa.

Adopting Tessa was a miracle too. Very early Saturday morning nearly two dog lifetimes ago we arrived in the shelter parking lot. Our two year old daughter was excited, anxiously awaiting the opened door. We needed the first shot at adopting Tess. My wife spotted her a day before.

She tenderly warned our daughter that someone might have already adopted Tessa. But Tessa was there to go home with us. No time to lose. We’re on dog time.

Tess dug holes and bit soap bubbles our daughter swept at her. She slept on our bedroom chair. Our daughter curled up in living room play tents with her. Tessa tolerated kids doing stuff to her that might make another dog growl or snap. But she played along with sweet tempered joy.

Our daughter grew; she had serious conversations with Tess, sitting on the couch and reading books to her. Sometimes she played dress up with Tessa in her clothes. Tess was a friend and playmate who always had time for a young girl. Dog time.

Our daughter would secretly sneak Tessa upstairs and sleep with her, smuggling her back down in the morning. We caught on but pretended we didn’t know.

We took Tessa camping and she played catch with waves on a Maine beach. On car trips Tessa sat in the back seat with our growing daughter. She cuddled Tessa while listening to music on her earphones. Christmas mornings a new plastic bone greeted Tess.

One day Tessa slowed down and wouldn’t eat. Our Veterinarian had a gruff exterior masking a deep love of animals - especially rescues. He warned that Tessa’s operation was tricky. But he deftly removed cancerous growths around her bowel without nicking it. More dog years.

But fluffy, lumbering, docile Tess was middle aged. We never knew exactly how old she was.

On a Sunday morning Tessa lay in front of a stone fireplace my grandfather built at my parents’ cabin. Her hips hurting, she dragged her back legs. She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t get up. The cancer was back.

We hugged her and said goodbye at the Veterinarian office. Then hugged and cried softly in the parking lot. We kept Tessa’s plastic bone and collar. Tessa’s box with her ashes was in the living room where Tessa had played, slept, cuddled, listened to our daughter’s stories and dressed in her clothes.

Now Lucy took us on walks. She invented games, dropping a tennis ball off a rocky outcrop, racing down to catch it. When she hurt her paw the Vet sewed it up with a pink bandage. Lucy bounded upstairs to our daughter’s room too. Gradually Lucy made a place in our hearts near Tessa.

But like a dog on a scent, time tracked Lucy as dog years passed. She would sometimes fall leaping for the ball. We would pat her and say “next time.” Meanwhile during college, our daughter had a part time job as a Veterinary Technician where she learned about dogs.

Stairs became roadblocks for Lucy. During our walks she’d look back and hesitate, finding the path steeper than she recalled. Maybe it’s time to go back. She shivered. The medicine and special food no longer helped.

Our daughter knew from work that our fear of losing Lucy postponed the inevitable. This time it was our daughter who gently reasoned with us. Our delay caused needless suffering for Lucy. It was time.

Lucy was very sick and in pain when we laid her on the polished floor at the Vet’s office a few weeks before the call during our car ride. We hugged her as she fell into deep sleep. No more pain.

So now Lucy’s ashes were ready in a polished wooden box that we would put on the bookshelf next to Tessa’s in the living room where Lucy played catch and our daughter hugged her looking at the Christmas Tree.

But we decided not to pick up Lucy’s box right away. We drove directly to a new rescue shelter.

Tessa was big, dark, gentle and relaxed, the perfect company for a young girl dreaming of castles, ponies and whales. Lucy was smaller, blonde, athletic and spirited. Perfect for an active teen.

Finding a dog like Tessa or Lucy was impossible. At the shelter I asked my wife if she saw a dog she liked. Without a word, she walked directly to a cage where a young long, slender dog sat.

The dog had black and brown Doberman/Rottweiler coloring. Her narrow deep chest and long thin legs said “hound.” But we noticed a soft, goofy demeanor as she sat on the side of her butt, staring, head angled, in mid scratch.

This dog was anything but fierce.

She was a Black and Tan Raccoon Hound. Instead of pointed erect ears, huge droopy tent flaps framed brown eyes. She had pumpkin seed eyebrows and cocked her head at sounds. Her long snout ended at a huge nose. She was a hunting hound, they said, and extremely active.

So we played catch in the tryout area; she ran — playing keep away with the ball, dropped it, panting and looking up. Just like Tess and Lucy, she wanted more. We’re on dog years, don’t you know?

The shelter folks down South had named her Gypsy. As lucky as we were with Tessa, Gypsy was lucky to be anywhere. Her shelter had so many dogs they put them to sleep if no one adopted them. Shelter workers from up North rescued Gypsy and she rode a truck to the local shelter.

Our daughter noticed Gypsy’s blue spot in her brown right eye. She was Nova.

Nova played with Tessa’s and Lucy’s white plastic bone. She wagged her tail upon seeing our big yard and smelling rabbits, chipmunks and squirrels. She dug holes.

She also was a hunter.

Nova once darted into some brush in the woods. I pulled on her leash. She came out with a rabbit in her mouth. “This is what I do.”

Being confused with a Doberman or Rottweiller came in handy. Once while walking in a deserted forest a young guy talking ragtime and swinging a big branch surprised us. As he approached, I yanked on Nova’s leash pretending to keep her from attacking. He circled at a safe distance.

Little did he know Nova would have merely sniffed his crotch, which is how she greets humans.

Dogs do this to each other, but Nova doesn’t discriminate, greeting human guests intimately. These awkward conversations break the ice when visitors arrive.

Nova still likes to wander and has run away, digging under the fence to chase rabbits. She climbs cliffs and chases squirrels, baying at them while leaning on tree trunks and looking up.

Nova’ sense of smell tops Tess’s and Lucy’s. She stops mid-walk, nose high, left front paw raised, catching a scent. In the woods, her head stays down as huge ears sweep smells into that beautiful nose.

At home she rubs her head under our necks, smelling our ears. She reaches out and lightly pats us, asking to be scratched. When we pat her, she holds our arm lightly with a paw. More please. Dog Time.

She uncovers dead stuff, then rolls in it.

And like Tessa and Lucy, Nova fills up holes. Lots of them.