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patient’s room. The man was in his midfifties with long gray hair and a longer gray beard,wearing a tie dyed T-shirt and beat-up camouflage pants. Tattered sneakers completed the aging hippie vibe, and when I looked at the dog next to him, he had a similar tattered look: a black pit bull wearing a red bandana and missing an ear. The two approached, and I held Sparkle’s leash a bit tighter.
    I’d seen the news reports; I’d heard the terrible stories. Even working with animals as long as I had, and knowing that it’s usually the owner’s behavior that dictates the dog’s, I was still myself wary as the two walked toward us.
    He stopped, taking notice of the tiara, the sash, the heels. During official appearances as Miss Golden State, the crown and the sash were required. He looked down at Sparkle, who was sniffing the other dog unconcernedly. The pit’s tail wagged happily, the red bandana giving him a jaunty look.
    “Therapy dog?” the man asked, nodding at Sparkle.
    “Yes, we’re here to spend some time with the patients; they really love it. You should see their eyes—”
    “Light up? Yep, I know. Joe here’s a therapy dog too, aren’t you, boy?” he said, looking down at the pit bull. Joe looked up at Lou and his mouth split into a wide grin, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.
    “He’s a therapy dog?” I asked, surprise evident in my voice. Flushing a little, I bit back the obvious “but he’s a pit bull” comment, although it was implied.
    Lou let out a huff. “You know much about pit bulls, princess?”
    “Just what I see on the news,” I admitted, resisting the urge to straighten my crown.
    “Mm-hmm. So nothing, really?” he asked.
    “No?” I offered, and he grinned.
    “Take Joe here. When I got him he was eight months old, and had never lived a day off a chain in the backyard. Starved half to death. Mixed it up with some other dogs, that’s how Iassume he lost the ear. But within three months of coming to stay with me? He was like the poster dog for Our Gang, weren’t you, big guy?”
    Tail wagged enthusiastically.
    “Our Gang?” I asked, kneeling down to pet Joe. With one look at that big grin, I was in love. And as Lou told me more and more about his organization, I became more and more sure that it was something I wanted to become involved in. He operated a shelter in Long Beach for rescued and abandoned pit bulls. Think Cesar Millan, with less sssssht . Some of the dogs were rescued from fighting rings, and the more he told me, the more my heart broke. He used the name Our Gang to remind people that the dog from The Little Rascals was a pit bull. The breed’s more recent history is all anyone ever remembered, either forgetting or never knowing that they were even used as baby-sitters a hundred years ago—something that I admit blew my mind.
    I spent the next hour asking Lou everything I could think of about Our Gang, while Sparkle and Joe napped peacefully at our ankles. And I went straight home that night to tell my mother all about the new charity I wanted to support.
    My mother had other ideas. She always has lots of ideas, as you can imagine. Is she a snob? If you consider a snob to be a blue-haired old woman who eats crustless cucumber sandwiches and complains about how hard it is to find good help, then no, she isn’t a snob. But she does have very particular ideas about everything and everyone, and into that preordained, predestined, predetermined box we all must go. And for her daughter, who she expected to ride her tiara straight into a wealthy marriage, how things appeared was key. Appearances are everything, didn’t you know?
    So her daughter, she of the crown and sash, going to work with rescued pit bulls? Not. Going. To fly.
    I’d tried to explain to Lou as best as I could why I couldn’t work with his organization, and he told me he understood. All too well. But we bumped into each other occasionally when I was out with a therapy dog, and we emailed,