The hose began to dribble. I dragged it out the gate, sprinkling plants as I walked.

The dog stood his ground until the water was an inch from his fleshy mouth. Then he craned his neck and began lapping. Then gulping. Then bathing in it, shaking his head and showering me before opening his maw and heading in for more.

Long time since the last tipple.

He shook and sprayed me again, turned his head away from the water, and sat.

When I returned from replacing the hose, he was still there, settled on his ample haunches.

"What now?" I said.

He ambled up to me, jauntily, a bit of roll in his stride. Putting his head against my leg, he kept it there.

I rubbed him behind the ears and his body went loose. He stayed relaxed as I used my handkerchief to wipe the crust from his face. When I was through, he let out a grumble of contentment.

"You're welcome."

He put his head against my leg once more, blowing out breath as I petted.

What a morning. I sighed.

He snorted. A reply?

I tried it again, sighing audibly. The dog produced an adenoidal grunt.

"A conversationalist," I said. "Someone talks to you, don't they? Someone cares about you."

Grunt.

"How'd you get here?"

Grumble.

My voice was loud against the quiet of the Glen, harsh counterpoint to the flow of the waterfall.

Nut mail and talking to a dog. This is what it's come to, Delaware.

The dog gazed up at me with a look I was willing to classify as friendship.

You take what you can get.

• • •

He watched as I pulled the Seville out of the carport, and when I opened the passenger door, he jumped in as if he owned the vehicle. For the next hour and a half, he looked out the window as I drove around the canyon, watching for LOST DOG posters on trees and talking to neighbors I'd never met. No one belonged to him and no one recognized him, though the checkout girl at the Beverly Glen Market opined that he was "a little stud," and several other shoppers concurred.