Well, as I was getting out of the shower this afternoon, the phone rang. It was Duke's mom.

She called from an airport, as she was about to get on the plane for her flight home.

"Do you still have my dog?"

"Yes, the Dukester is still here."

"Is he on your patio?"

"Nope, he made it purty clear he liked it better inside."

She laughed.

"I do keep him inside. Thank you, thank you. You have just made my new year. Thank you so much. Can I bring you something special, anything?"

"No, please, not needed. We're dog folks - I know how you've been feeling. How long was he gone?"

She told the story. She had to leave him with her parents while she was out on a business trip. They had put him in the back yard. Being a indoor kinda dog, he escaped through the fence. The parents' house is only a few blocks from here, which solves the mystery of how he got miles away from the house without getting picked up, or knowing how to find his way back home.

It weighed him today, by weighing myself on the bathroom scale, then picking him up, and weighing myself again, and that took some gronking, to discover he weighs 79 pounds. Makes my eighty pound guess look purty good, doesn't it? :-)

I took him up to the neighboorhood bar where CG and I eat and drink a few times a week, as the manager is a friend and has a digital. She took a few pics, which I'll post as soon as she forwards them.

Duke knows something is up, I think. I told him that Debbie (not her real name) is coming to get him. He perked up at the mention of her (real) name, and alternates between coming over to lick my hands, like he's trying to tell me to make her hurry up, and sitting up by the door, sniffing through the jamb, and whining.

"Duke, relax buddy, her plane hasn't even landed yet. She''ll be here about 9:30."

(lick-lick whine)

About an hour to go...

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I saw an article today that has reminded me of a post I've been wanting to make. It was written by Frank James of the Chicago Trib, (though I saw it in the Houston Comical) and it's about your and my favorite mystery meat, spam.

I give you the links, but the Trib wants you to register, and the Comical drops everything off into the payola archives too quickly for you to get to it.

All it really says is that spam is bad and getting worse, and you already knew that.

The pertinent quote: "In September of 2001, we measured that 8 percent of all Internet e-mail was spam," said Linda Smith Munyan, a spokeswoman for Brightmail, which provides companies with spam-blocking software. "For (2002), it was 40 percent."

Well, the first thing to note here is that stats from a company that makes anti-spam code is not exactly coming from the most objective source. But Frank mentions her interest - good for him. It is getting worse, though I'm not sure it's gone up 500% in a single year.

About six months or so ago, I started using Mailwasher, a spamblocker. I've been happy with it. It's flexible, easy to use, and best of all, free. You do have to look at a small banner in the freeversion, but you can register it for as little as three bucks. The author calls it a "tip." Twenty bucks gets you tech support and lifetime upgrades. It's so easy to use I can imagine anybody would need tech support, but...

I've not done much research into the alternatives. It was the first anti-spam software I tried, and I've liked it enough to not even go look at others.

I've been running version 1.32, a beta. Looking at the developer's website, the latest is 2.0.12b. Yikes! Guess I need to upgrade...

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So we see this dog this afternoon wandering around in a parking lot near our humble abode. He's a big boy, looks to be a cross between a Lab and a Pit Bull, with a huge square head and a deep chest. I make him about 80 pounds. He just has this look about him that lets you know he's lost - that is, iffn you're a dog person.

As we approach, he seems friendly. He has a chain collar with some tags on it. As I hold out my hand to him, I tell him to sit. He does.

Hmm, he's had some training.

He's in great health, by the looks of him - well-fed, clear eyed, and a glossy jet black coat. I'd post a pic, but I left the digital out at my Mom's at Xmas.

I read his tags as he licks my hand. He whines a bit and wags his tail.

The tag with his name on it is old and worn; I can't make out the number, but his name looks like Drake?... no, Duke.

"Hey, Duke, buddy, is that your name?"

Tail banging increases voluminously.

"Are you lost, big fella? Want something to eat?"

He follows me onto the patio, where I shut the gate behind him. His rabies tag had the name and number of his vet, along with the vaccination number. I jot it on my hand, get him a bowl of food, and set it down as I go inside to make the call. He chows down.

The lady at the clinic looks up his info, and gives me the owner's name and home number. I call and leave a message on the answering machine. Not surprising, as it's just after five. They're prolly not home from work yet. I then call back the vet lady, and leave my home number. She offers to place a call to the work number. I tell her go for it. She gives me his home address. I map it on the 'net, and he's from a ritzy neighborhood about three miles from here. So he's definitely wandered off from somebody.

It's now close to midnight. No call yet from the owner. We finally let him in a few hours ago, after he whined at the door.

I had to keep Shelby and the cats in the office with me. The cats were mortified when thay saw him - Spook arched his back, hissed like a steam engine, and started crow-hopping sideways around him. Rusty let out a screech and high-tailed it under the bed. Shelby has been known in the past to not Play Well With Others. She growls and nips at the wolfhounds, who just ignore her as not a threat. They've been sniffing each other like mad through the door.

Duke has been a perfect gentleman, but I don't really trust that pit bull heritage as evidenced by that big ol' blocky head. Last thing I need to be doing is reffing a fourway canine/feline melee. Looks like he's gonna have to spend the night, though.

You'd a thunk they would have called by now. Cookoff Girl is already hoping they never do. (sigh)

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