"He's a community dog," laughed Uncle Bill, stroking Inky's long furry ears.

I knew that. Inky came to my house for meals, love, and tick removal. Sometimes he failed to come when I xcalled, but I didn't worry until his outside food bowl was neglected for over a week. "Something's happened to him,"  I told Chris.

Looking for Inky one chill Fall morning, I spotted the limp doggy shape crumpled beside the highway. Chris investigated, reporting, "He's frozen to the ground." He got a shovel and a plastic garbage bag, and we retrieved our little friend.

We tearfully chose a spot near our fence. "He was a good dog," I sighed, and trudged up the hill to immerse myself in housework. Chris found something to read in another room.

Needing music, I soon went to put on a soothing tune, but the label blurred. "More light," I muttered, pushing aside the living room curtain.

Across the yard, the sight of a small black dog, fur matted and dirty, made my red eyes bulge.  "It's him! He's alive!" I screamed and ran outside, adding, "Bring a blanket!"

On the way to the vet, I marveled that Inky wasn't muddy, that we hadn't suffocated him. "Thawed him out," I thought.

"He's been shot," the vet told us. "Through both back legs. Must've been jumping at the time."

We paid for medication and brought Inky home. "I wonder who we buried?" Chris remarked.

No reports of missing pets matched Inky's description. We haven't been back to the fence. I'm afraid of what we might find.