A tiny, impeccably dressed woman I've never met before is crying. Crying and petting furiously. Monty, as usual, is swooning, eyes closed, all 80 pounds of him leaning so heavily into her hip I fear he might knock her down. She, meanwhile, is oblivious, because she has a story to tell. Apparently my golden retriever is the doppelgnger of her beloved Toodles, right down to the white tuft of hair on the crown of his red pointy head. I explain that Monty is trying to grow a yarmulke, and she giggles as she blows her nose.

Toodles is gone now, but before he died at 14, he got her through the worst year of her life: the year her last child went to college, her husband left and she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She is better now, and thinking about another golden. Did I think this was a good idea? We talk about a rescue group for goldens on Long Island, and she promises to look into it. We say goodbye. I may never see her again, but I like to think some oversize pain-in-the-butt fur ball is gnawing on her Manolos right now.

In the 1920s, immigrant novelist Anzia Yezierska wrote a series of essays and stories about New Yorkers called "Children of Loneliness." I know little about her, but I'm willing to bet that she did not have a dog. Because to have a dog here is more than just a hedge against solitude. A dog in New York City (or really, any city) is not only your buddy; he's everyone's buddy--a four-legged invitation to vent. While stroking Monty's velvet ears, strangers have told me about their struggles with drugs, the shame of being fired in a booming economy, the children and lovers and friends who betrayed them. One guy, dressed head to foot in black leather, started to sob uncontrollably as he told me about being released after a year in prison and running home to his mother's to find out if his American bulldog, Chester, still recognized him. He did!

The common denominator of all these stories is that somewhere along the line, it was a pet who saved a human's sanity. It's a theme I understand all too well. I had never owned a dog as an adult, but the day I visited the Animal Rescue Fund on Long Island, I knew I wouldn't be leaving without one. After a third round of in vitro fertilization, I'd just had my third miscarriage, and it's not much of an exaggeration to say I wasn't quite in my right mind. My husband was quick to point out that I had never made room in my life for anything more time consuming than a cactus. In my hormone-addled state, he said, I shouldn't be making a decision about a living creature that required hours of attention and exercise a day.

I answered with what I thought was supreme rationality. The dog was not a child substitute, but simply a way for me to get more fresh air. I worked at home, tethered to the phone, and my reasons for getting out of the house were diminishing at an alarming rate. After all, e-mail was just so much simpler than getting gussied up to face another human being.

What I couldn't adequately explain was that I felt not so much lonely as sterile, the condition of my body pervading every facet of my life. I wanted what I imagined a child gave people: a life less tidy and arranged. I wanted chance encounters, odd, unforeseeable circumstances. Frankly, I kind of looked forward to picking up dog poo.

Did I get what I bargained for? Absolutely, and not at all. As much as I love my dog-obsessed friend's line about how "a child is a really good dog substitute," I wanted--and continue to want--a human child of my own. This probably will not happen. What happened instead, though, is pretty damn good. After 20 years this odd, alien, ruthless city I inhabit has become a neighborhood. People I had never spoken to now exchange pleasantries with me. Other dog owners and I swap gossip at the local dog run ("Can you believe what Bubba did to Chumley?"), and boast about the adorable things our dogs did last night--much to the eye-rolling exasperation of non-dog-owning listeners. Most of all, walking Monty, I've got a window into the lives of people from every conceivable background, with nothing in common except that some animal, somewhere, touched their lives.

The other day my husband, who almost never walks Monty, took him out after the pooch had minor surgery on his leg. It took John about an hour to get around the block. He came home, dumbfounded; he clearly had never considered the babe-magnet aspects of dog-walking. "This beautiful woman stopped me," he said in awe. "And do you know what she said?"

I didn't know precisely, but I had a good idea. John, suddenly transformed into a Sensitive New Age Guy, had gotten to hear some pretty personal stuff.

Recently I've thought about hanging a sign around Monty's neck whenever we go for a stroll. It'll read: THE DOCTOR IS IN.

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By Judith Newman