AKRON, Ohio — This is the magical story of a worthless dog that built a behemoth.

It all began about 30 years ago, when a young man in his formative years, a student at St. John's College in Annapolis, Md., kicked around with the campus mutt. He wishes to remain anonymous, so I'll call him the Mystery Man.

"When he was in school, a stray dog lived there and ran free in the halls," said Ken McCort, the Doylestown, Ohio, animal behavior consultant. The dog lent ambience, personality and enthusiasm to the institution of higher learning and marked the Mystery Man's school years in waves of sloppy kisses.

"The dog had an impact," McCort said.

The mutt got a decent education, if perhaps by osmosis, and lived a wonderful life, eventually dying of old age, but not before making a mark on many impressionable young minds. Mystery Man graduated and became quite successful and developed a heart for philanthropy, and the story comes full circle.

Now a wealthy adult, he wanted to give back. He told St. John's he wanted to build the school a dormitory, providing it would put a pooch on campus. He would even supply the sheets and mattresses, McCort said.

It was a peach of a deal and construction is under way.

Then, this summer, the college contacted Ray Coppinger, the eminent dog guru, to find the perfect canine.

"Ray lives in Hampshire, Mass., on a 150-acre farm," McCort said. "He's got sheep and studies biology, is the leading authority on dog behavior in the world, an ethologist. He has been studying feral dogs for 50 years and has forgotten more about dogs than I'll ever know. ... I've known Ray for years and do a lecture series with him."

Coppinger was enthusiastic and willing, but to get the ball rolling, he needed a trainer. "He told the college he wanted me to be involved to help acclimate the dog. His first mission, though, was to find a dog," McCort said. "Dogs don't fall out of the sky, so he sent out feelers."

The hunt was on.

"I have a Jack Russell." Coppinger said. "Well, really he belongs to my grandchildren and I like him for kids. I never worry about him biting, and if he jumps up, he won't knock anybody down. And he is feisty and responsive and funny. So I looked for a dog for St. John's and couldn't find one anywhere that was appropriate."

Then a former student of his, a vet, knowing Coppinger had a Jack Russell, called to offer him another one.

"So I went and took a look," Coppinger said. "I didn't like the dog — she had been caged too long and barked too much and was absolutely hyper. But I said I'd take her and give her a try."

"She was 9 months old and brought into the vet to be euthanized," McCort said. "The owner said there was nothing redeeming about this dog, but the vet thought she was exceptionally good. ... A Jack Russell would have been one of my last choices. They are usually hyper and chase things, but this is no typical dog."

"She calmed down when she got in our home," Coppinger said. "Everybody who met her immediately wanted her. I have 17 people who will take her if she gets rejected. What a dog."

McCort and Coppinger met on campus on Sept. 5, Cadie in hand.

(She didn't get her name until later, but the story begs for it now. After she settled in, the Student Senate had a meeting and chose Cadie, short for Cadia, after Arcadia, a pastoral land in ancient Greece. "These kids are scholarly, real eggheads," McCort said. "They read the masters." A common name would be out of the question.)

Now it was the trainer's turn. McCort shifted into gear. He used a method called target training — the end of a stick — to teach her to go from point A to B and how to get up on things. She was already equipped with pretty good manners, but to keep her from wandering off, he taught her to stay in the heart of the campus, in and around the courtyard, which is flanked by offices of people who adore her and a gathering spot for students who feel the same way.

"She was really pretty good on recall, a very smart dog. I spent the first night in a hotel and she spent it on my bed. Then the next day at the college, when students changed classes, we hung out with her in the courtyard, near the assistant dean's office. She assigned a student to watch out for Cadie during the day."

The students were concerned about her welfare, and asked for a meeting with McCort. Were her new digs appropriate, good for her, they asked. Will she be taken care of? "Then they were fine with it," he said. "Cadie paraded around and got in people's laps. She's a cute little dog. I'd take her home. She's not a typical Jack Russell. She wouldn't even chase a bird or ball. ... We didn't want a butterfly chaser."

The little Jack Russell girl is a sensation, a perk of higher learning, a missionary in her own right, teaching growing young minds the wisdom of animal rescue and unconditional acceptance. She's one happy dog, and presumably does not know (or does she?) that a euthanasia needle had designs on her.

"She was the right dog to train for the college," Coppinger said. "She is quite gentle, not big, beautifully marked. Not a bite problem and if she jumps up on somebody's grandmother, she won't knock them down. For the students, she is a dream dog, responsive and easy to train."

She would have been one of the most expensive dogs of all time, except that everybody involved donated their expertise.

"It was all about love of animals," McCort said.

Mystery Man approves.