If no tags, probably not chipped. But you can check by calling local shelters. Get it to the vet ASAP to check for worms, shots, etc. Malnourished. Needs water and food. But don’t overfeed or it will bloat. Needs bath. Are you keeping it?

No! I think. Of course not.

If not, take it to a local no-kill.

No-kill, I think. I look at the dog. Somebody already tried to kill it.

Good luck! It came to the right person. Let me know if you decide to keep it. You can bring it here for free shots, etc.

No. I’m not keeping it. I have an inn. I have a new start. I can’t take on more stress and financial burden. I can’t have a blind dog running around my inn with guests.

The dog looks up at me and then—with all its remaining energy—scooches even closer to me, puts a paw on my leg and sighs.

I pick the dog up, carry it back to the cottage, set it in the yard. It looks around, sniffs, wobbles a bit in the snow and, finally, hikes its leg.

She is a he.

“Of course,” I say to the dog. “Makes total sense.”

I pick up the dog with a grunt, carry him directly to the bathtub—which, mind you, I’ve yet to use today—and partially fill it with warm water and lots of bubble bath. I grab a cup off the sink and a couple of towels out of a basket, and then pick up the dog. He begins to dog-paddle as I hold him over the water, and the scene makes me smile. I set the dog in the tub and slowly pour warm water over his body. I gasp. He’s even thinner wet than I had imagined.

“You poor thing,” I coo. “It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay now.”

Dirt immediately fills the tub, and the water turns dark. As I wash the dog’s ears and face, he sighs, and a look of utter contentment covers his face. Slowly, the Lab’s true color emerges: he is golden, and his ears are the color of a daffodil.

I pull the dog from the bath and wrap him in a blanket, softly drying his face and the rest of his fur. I pick him up again with a grunt, carry him downstairs and into the kitchen, and begin to scrounge through the kitchen for any food I might have.