Lucky

I knew it was the first dangerous question, but sometimes playing it safe is just no way to play, let alone live. And what the heck: it's Christmas, so I just went ahead and asked.

"What kind of dog is it?"

I was over in the outlaw corner, passing the holiday time with my sister-in-law's husband, listening to the story of the dog he and his son had brought home out of the rain last Sunday.

"The vet said it was part lab and part Staffordshire Terrier," and he pauses, almost apologizes for the dog when he explains, "apparently that's what a pit bull officially is called." And he goes on to tell me about the dog that has not once barked, will come and sit and stay, and yet has no tags or chip or record with Animal Control nor any response to the Found Dog signs that they've posted all around.

"She's a really sweet dog," he continues, "but we'll have to take her to the Humane Society if no one claims her."

You see where this is going, right?

So far, we've only gone to visit, making a 60 mile round-trip detour at the end of a very long day. We're officially thinking it over. Figuring out where we could put the crate. Regretting taking down the backyard fence. Preparing for the inevitable. I mean, she is a very sweet dog. And she's already got a name.