1. It is the historian, whose deep compassion for a lost dog knows practically no limits. NO LIMITS, the people. And the dogs sense this about him.
I believe I have already mentioned that three small dogs--three little ewoks, if you will, for they are that very variety of small dog that resemble ewoks--were roaming our neighborhood like an ultra small gang. We were out walking Bruiser (Prince of Dogs) and they espied us, and fell upon us like wolves upon the fold, except that they were, y'know, really small, so actually they just swirled around our feet and ran figure eights around us and, in general, followed us home.
I spoke to them sternly. "Go home," I said, sternly. To no avail.
We took Bruiser in the house and did not allow the dogs to go inside. We got in the car to see if perhaps there were fliers crying about three lost ewoks. Alas. We returned home, and there were three dogs, sitting on our porch, waiting for us.
Reader, we took them in. We have an enclosed porch out back. We fed them, we gave them water, we made a bed for them. Meanwhile, we made a sign for our front yard: "We Found These Dogs," with pictures of the dogs. We made a flier: "Found: Three Dogs!" with pictures of the dogs. We posted this hither and yon. We put an ad in the paper. With pictures.
Has anyone claimed the dogs? No.
Yesterday, we took the dogs to our vet for a scan, to see if they had microchips embedded. No. I called the animal shelters--had anyone been asking for three ewoks? How should we know? said the woman I spoke to at the county (she didn't really use those words). We don't keep a log. (So confidence-inspiring, this interchange was. This may be why we haven't taken them to the shelter yet.)
But we need to take the dogs to the shelter.
The people, the shelter makes me so sad.