That’s Not My Dog

by Gideon Noire I went boating a few weeks ago with my friend, Skeeter. And when I got home there was a pooch on my porch. I don’t suppose that’s all that newsworthy, but the dog, in the words of the famous criminologist Inspector Clousaeu, was not my dog. At least, that was my impression. His name, I was told later that evening as Esmeralda and I sat staring into his obviously loving but clearly confused canine eyes, was Luther. And yes, she said, he was…our…dog. As Skeeter and I had bumped blissfully over the Ditty River’s shallow rapids that…