"Hey Sophie! What are you doing here?"
My friend Diane had stopped by to deliver some poetry stuff and was staying for tea. I was fussing in the kitchen. She was in the living room.
I don't have a Sophie that lives with me. I don't know a Sophie.
I walked around the corner, and Diane was talking to a curly-haired, black pooch, who seated, was still about chest-high.
"Well hi!" I said and reached out and scratched Sophie's ears. She was mightily glad to see some humans that liked her and wanted to pet her.
Sophie lived with Diane's next door neighbors and that was about a mile away, as the road goes, about half a mile as the crow flies.
Apparently, Sophie had escaped, run down the hill, couldn't find her way back home. She'd spotted Diane, whom she knew, followed her into my apartment building, then knew enough to search the open doors on a summer day, found my patio door open, walked in, and plopped her sweet self down until Diane spotted her.
I still shake my head. How do dogs know what to do?
Diane called Sophie's human mom and she popped down the hill and picked up Soph. Now there's a dog you want to know.