My family always had dogs. It was my mother’s thing, mostly, as she was a dog person and in her family growing up, she had a variety of show dogs. There was nothing showy about our family’s dogs, though, they were mostly mutts and one sporty-looking beagle. All told, we had six of them, at different times, of course: Happy, Toto, Twinkle, Rudy, Archie, and Benson. Twinkle, Rudy, and Archie were all killed—hit by cars. Happy was put to sleep for biting my sister, Cil, in the mouth. Toto ran away, and Benson died in his sleep.

The story I want to tell here is about Toto, our only purebred, the beagle. Toto was usually tied to a long wire run between two big oak trees in the side yard of our house in Lawrence, New York. Mom figured he liked this habitat and left him skipping around out there most days. After school, Cil and I took turns walking him around the neighborhood, because, as mom would say, “he needed his exercise.” Dad never paid much attention to Toto except for about a week, as I recall.

My father flew a small plane as a hobby and took time off now and then to fly out to our other home on Long Island, about 120 miles away. There, in Montauk Point, we had Startop Ranch, a thoroughbred-racehorse breeding establishment. The whole family usually drove out there on weekends, but sometimes, midweek, Dad would make a quick plane trip out to check on the stallions, mares, and foals. As it happened, one of the days he went was the day that Toto decided to run away. Mom had found Toto’s chain dangling from between the trees in the yard. She spent considerable time searching the adjacent yards for Toto, and she promised we would get a new pup if he didn’t come home. Despite Toto’s disappearance that day, Dad flew to Montauk.

A few days later, Dad arrived back from his trip with a small dog in tow. He sauntered in with this stubby, beagle-looking dog on a short rope, and said he had found Toto in Montauk, carousing around East Lake drive near the entrance to our house. It was obvious this dog was not the run-away Toto. Inez, our housekeeper, chortled instantly, “Dr. Star that ain’t our dog, look how short he is!” “Of course he’s shorter,” my Dad replied. “He had to walk 120 miles this week.” We knew he didn’t mistake this dog for our Toto.

But the “substitute” Toto was bathed and fed, and we tried to warm up to him, thinking he would be our new friend. Cil and I really didn’t like him all that much, but for my father’s sake, we rallied around the little guy—after all Dad had made an attempt to get us a new playmate.

End of the week came and Friday after school we all made the 2½-hour car ride to Montauk. As we neared our street the new Toto suddenly became agitated and started barking and jumping around in the car. When we came to a stop, Dad opened the car door and out flew the dog, making a bee-line over to his “real” home. From up the driveway, came a man with a leash in his hand, explaining that he’d been searching for his lost dog for about a week now.