Old Dog

Faye, the old black Labrador who showed up here a while back, is still making a break for it.  In the mornings as I'm out on the deck filling the hummers' feeders for breakfast, watering the plants, or just considering The Plan for the day, I hear, "Fa-a-a-ye.  Fa-a-a-ye!," from up on Irish Acres, the even smaller dirt road across the way.  The voice moves up and down the hill and, as frustration builds, the calls are louder and less coaxing.  "Faye!  Faye!  Faye!"  Bess and I keep a look out in case she wanders up our drive, but since I tethered her to the porch the last time it's not likely she'll come back here, unless she also remembers the milk bones and water bowl.  During the brief conversation I had with the man when he came to retrieve his retriever, he mentioned that Faye had belonged to his son.  I know no other particulars or the circumstances that brought her to Fair Play.  She evidently misses the son, or perhaps she was a city dog and is having trouble adjusting to country living.  She was very happy to see the man when he came to get her, and he obviously cares for her or he wouldn't spend his mornings hunting for her.  I know he has to go to work, and still he calls and calls for her.  He either finds her or she comes back, because it happens again and again.  I'm left to imagine the story behind this drama, and to wish them both well.