I had just begun to write a self-indulgent post about how bleak it is to be back in the small town midwest after months of traveling Europe alone when, halfway through a sentence, my aunt called me to the front yard. She had found a stray dog, a young pup, part pit bull from the looks of him. He was chasing a car up our street, but came when she called out to him. My family has a long history of helping strays. We feel it is our karmic duty: when I was twelve-years-old, my dog Abbey jumped the fence of my aunt's yard and was killed by a car, and ever since then we have no choice but to take care of every stray or lost animal that comes our way. If someone had snagged Abbey before she made it to the busiest street in town, she might still be alive, and I think of her whenever another dog shows up on our stoop. We have to help them!
I always name the dogs Charlie regardless of gender.
This Charlie was well fed and cared for. He had a collar but no tags. After checking with all of the neighbours, we were preparing to keep him for a night or a few days when a car drove by. Happy ending -- they were looking for the pup.
Not all of my posts will be as dull and ineloquent as this one.