“Um . . . this is Karen Alnord. My dog got lost and you said in the paper that you found a bulldog?”

“Yes, I did. He's a little French bulldog.”

“Oh . . . mine's a boxer.” Dejected.

“Sorry. This one's not a boxer, Karen.”

“Oh . . . I just thought—you know, sometimes people think they're bulldogs.”

“I can see the resemblance,” I said. “The flat face—”

“Yeah.”

“But the one I've found's much smaller than a boxer.”

“Mine's a puppy,” she said. “He's not too big yet.”

I put her age at between nine and eleven.

“This one's definitely full-grown, Karen. I know because I took him to the veterinarian.”

“Oh . . . um . . . okay. Thank you, sir.”

“Where'd you lose your dog, Karen?”

“Near my house. We have a gate, but somebody left it open and he got out.”

“I'm really sorry. Hope you find him.”

“I will,” she said, in a breaking voice. “I've got an ad, too, and I'm calling all the other ads, even though my mom says none of them are probably the right one. I'm paying a reward, too—twenty dollars, so if you do find him you can get it. His name's Bo and there's a bone-shaped tag on his collar that says Bo and my phone number.”

“I'll keep an eye out, Karen. Whereabouts do you live?”

“Reseda. On Cohasset between Sherman Way and Saticoy. His ears haven't been cropped. If you find him, here's my phone number.”

I wrote it down, even though Reseda was over the hill to the north, fifteen or twenty miles away.

“Good luck, Karen.”

“Thank you, sir. I hope your bulldog finds his owner.”

That reminded me that I hadn't yet called the Kennel Club. Information gave me the number in New York and another one in North Carolina. Both answered with recorded messages and told me business hours were over.

“Tomorrow,” I told the bulldog.

He'd been observing me, maintaining that curious, cocked head stance. The fact that someone was probably grieving for him bothered me, but I didn't know what else to do other than take good care of him.

That meant food, water, shelter. A walk, when it got cool enough.

A walk meant a leash.

He and I took a drive to a pet store in south Westwood and I bought a lead, more dog food, biscuits in various flavors, and a couple of nylon bones the salesman assured me were excellent for chewing. When we returned, it seemed temperate enough for a stroll if we stayed in the shade. The dog stood still, tail wagging rapidly, while I put the leash on. The two of us explored the Glen for half an hour, hugging the brush, walking against traffic. Like regular guys.

When I got back, I called my service. Joan said, “There's just one, from a Mrs. Rodriguez—hold on, that's your board . . . there's someone ringing in right now.”