It's not often that I stand in my driveway and watch the ever increasing traffic whiz by but that's what I was doing when off in the distance I could see a little black speck moving along the center line of the road towards me. As it got closer, I could just make out a dog, maybe a mongrel cross between a black labrador and a schnauzer. The dog seemed to have some goal in mind: its gait was even and steadfast, and it neither veered to the right nor left as dogs who are out on a morning prowl tend to do . I was mesmerized watching such doggie discipline as it got closer and closer: "Where could it be going so intently?" I thought. Then it turned into my driveway, passing me as it walked over to my front door, and plopped its butt down onto my lawn to sit there staring at me, tongue out, panting. Surprised, the dog and I shared a moment looking into each other's souls.

"Bark!" It announced its presence.

The surreal moment broken, "Get outta here, dog," I replied.

That evening, when I got home from work, my kids were in a free-for-all with the small, black bundle of energy. Apparently the dog did not understand my message that morning, and I knew that the opportunity had passed to easily get rid of the little beastie now that my kids were in the picture.

"Put out 'Lost Dog' posters," I told the three sweaty, smiling faces. They never did. Since you don't really own a pet until you have named it, I wouldn't let the kids call it anything but "the dog", which soon evolved to "Mr. Dog", and a new family member was adopted.

Stories like this usually end now, but this one takes a turn not usually found on the pages of "Reader's Digest". Mr. Dog had a playful streak I have never seen before; the kids loved him and he was good about not chewing on the hose or toys left in the yard, which I thought was pretty remarkable for a dog. He did tend to bark at cars a lot, and it was lucky the mailman delivered from a truck because Mr. Dog didn't like strangers in the yard, (other than himself that is).

At the end of the first week I was surprised how well this random event had changed my family's life. Then we got the knock on the front door. Eerily Mr. Dog did not bark, nor did he even seem to be around. It was the 80s-something year old neighbor, Mrs. Bruce. "Have you seen my cat, 'Tabitha'?" she creaked.

"No," I said quietly.

"Oh pooh," replied Mrs. Bruce, I haven't seen her for a week."

My blood ran cold. Late that night, as I lay in bed listening to Mr. Dog bark at the wind, I wondered.

The next morning Heather, my daughter, ran into my bedroom. "Something is wrong with the goose!" she yelled.

Putting on my bathrobe, following her outside, I feared the worst. Something was wrong with the goose all right, it had been something's plaything, and that something played rough. I had a sinking suspicion. As the days went by, more mysterious calamities hit. Mr. Dog had stood in front of the school bus for half an hour barking: my wife, Gwynne, ended up dragging him away by the neck with a rope. Another goose disappeared. Moles were found mangled, their bloody corpses laying in the yard, (I didn't know we had so many moles). I suggested to Gwynne that there might be some connection to these strange events and the arrival of our new guest.

"Oh no!" she lamented, "Mr. Dog would never do that...", and seeing that look in my eye, she added, "…and the children love him."

I will give Mr. Dog some credit. I had tied him up at night, for his own protection you know, and he didn't seem to like it. He didn't do just his usual, hard to get to sleep barking: about 3:00 am he really started on a tirade. "Bark! Bark! Bark!" for over an hour. I looked at my clock: that damn dog was going hoarse barking, finally getting quiet enough that I could fall back to sleep cursing. The next morning when I went into the carport I found that somebody had stolen my big toolbox. Mr. Dog looked up at me, "I tried to tell you, you numskull," his big eyes said. He almost earned a reprieve; I felt so guilty I let him off that nasty chain.

But there was the last fateful knock on the door. I peeked through the spy hole, it was little Mrs. Bruce: she seemed upset. I opened the door apprehensively. "Hello, Mrs. Bruce. How are you?"

"Have you seen my new kitten, 'Tiger'?" she whined. "He was only out for a moment this morning but he seems to have gotten lost."

"Ahhh..." I answered intelligently. "No."

Mrs. Bruce had some more to say, but I was thinking in overdrive about somebody else.

That evening when the kids got home from school, they came running into my computer room as a group. "Where's Mr. Dog?" they yelled.

"Isn't he around here?" I asked innocently.

"No!" they cried in unison.

"Maybe he went back to his owner," I suggested.

They just looked at me accusingly.

"Maybe he..." But I knew it wouldn't do any good.

My kids now hate me for life, and I'm sure that Mr. Dog is ruling Doggy Hell with a firm bark.

Huh? Where'd Mr Dog go?!? Get him back!

Hey,

That's a sad story.

Clinton

Ha ha! Funny story. I guess Mr. Dog got what was coming to him. Still you can't help feeling sorry for the critter.

Joe.