The visitor

I had a visitor to my garden Saturday morning. I was just putting on my shoes to go out and begin some deadheading when he strolled by the window, just as nonchalant as you please. I tapped on the glass as a friendly warning to stay out of my flowerbeds, but he totally ignored me. I have to admit that this caused me a moment's irritation, so I threw open the door--prepared for a confrontation.

Even the sound of my stomping down the steps didn't get his attention and it suddenly dawned on me that the poor creature was totally deaf and not a little debilitated.

The aged and overfed basset hound was now making concentric circles around my yard. He was obviously lost and very confused.

Flashback 10 years to when another dog had appeared on our doorstep. She came and wouldn't leave. We tried finding her owners. No one claimed her. We tried giving her away. She barked and growled at everyone--everyone except me. For some reason she trusted me and attached herself to my side. So much so, that we ended up keeping her and naming her Tag.

But she was psychotic. Really. Whenever I wasn't around she'd go berserk and eat the woodwork or the furniture or the carpeting. If we tried to confine her she'd chew her way out or break her teeth trying. She even ate the dashboard of our car.

Thousands of dollars in repairs later, it was obvious that the dog had to go. Not a happy ending for either of us.

I didn't want the same thing to happen again. But when the basset started that forlorn yowling that only a hound can make, I knew I had to intervene. I marched right into the house and told my husband he'd better do something--and fast. And, bless his heart, he did.

After feeding and watering and resting the beast, he took him around the neighborhood, in search of an owner. No one had ever seen him before.

I was beginning to get scared. I didn't like any of the options that were presenting themselves.

So, the three of us sat down on the front steps to contemplate our plight in silence.

Before long, a blue pick up truck turned into our cul-de-sac and a man got out. The basset's tail began to wag. He raised himself up on arthritic legs and lumbered across the yard.

I felt better.

This time, we were going to have our happy ending.