Dear Marion,

If I'm capable of such a product, this will be a short letter,
otherwise I won't have time to work on my novel.

It's no laughing matter, I need a specialist in zoological ethics.
You're a zoologist, you know right from wrong.  Can you help?
Here's the story: 

Fifty-eight years ago this summer, the date June 7, 1951 sticks in
my mind, because that's the day my teacher and patron at Harvard,
the Kuno Francke Professor of Germanic Languages and Literatures,
Karl Vietor, died of hypernephroma, - during my first year in 
medical school, I had moonlighted as his research assistant,
combing late 19th century periodicals for references to Nietzsche,
about whom Vietor was preparing to write a book.  When I received
the news of Vietor's death, I took a solitary walk from 30 Grant
Street where I then shared an apartment, through Harvard Square,
down Brattle and up Sparks Street, all the way to Huron Avenue.
On my way back, at the corner of Sparks and Brattle, I was joined
by a small caramel colored dog. I didn't address him, made no
overtures, but he followed me nonetheless. In fact, he adopted me,
entered the apartment with me and jumped on my bed as if it were his own.
Inexperienced in human-canine relationships, I fed him and made him
a place to sleep.  The following morning I packed the car to drive
to Konnarock, expecting my doggy companion to pursue his own itinerary.
I was mistaken. As I was leaving, he jumped into the car, and accompanied
me first to Philadelphia where we were joined by Margaret, whom I would
marry the following year. Without hesistation, he went with us to
Virginia, - my parents adopted him enthusiastically and named
him Mutz - in memory of the ancestral legendary sheep dog who ages
before was reported dutifully to accompany his master to the village church
somewhere in Thueringen each Sunday.  On one such occasion, when the
minister was expostulating on the verse: "In meines Vaters Haus sind
viele Wohnungen," the shepherd turned to his dog in disbelief and
exasperation and said: "Mutz komm, den sein Vater Kaffalle,
die hab ich gekannt." where Kaffalle, a word I can find not even
in Grimm's Woerterbuch, presumably refers to a dilapidated shack. 
For generations of family, the words: "Mutz, komm" became proverbial
and were recited to protest an assertion that was clearly not credible.
The latter-day Mutz became my parents' faithful companion, accompanied
them on all their trips to the South Carolina seashore as well as on
an excursion to the Bethlehem Bach Festival. He learned to
understand German, was enchanted by Schubert Lieder, and became a
devout listener to the music of Bach, although unlike my parents,
Mutz preferred the Christmas Oratorio to the St Matthew Passion.
The little dog spent many contented years with my parents in Konnarock,
an idyllic existence which ended tragically, when on one of his
regular excursions to the environs of the village, Mutz was murdered
by a trigger-happy hillbilly. After a suitable period of mourning, my
parents tried to replace Mutz sequentially with at least three other dogs,
none of whom measured up to Mutz's standards of intelligence and
responsiveness. My mother's last dog, Strolch, named after the dog
of Leutnant Glahn, the hero of Knut Hamsun's novel Pan, died a natural
death in advanced dog years, when my mother's dementia was already so
far advanced that she no longer knew the difference.

I suppose I make a short story long, embarrassed by the fact
that Margaret and I have once more been adopted by a dog,
whom we did not invite, but who took up residence on our lawn
and declared by deed if not by word that rather than depart,
he would starve to death if we did not feed him. I know very
little about dogs. This one is small, no bigger than a large
cat, with smooth glistening black fur. His ears which usually
stand quite straight are pointed, and his tail wags ceaselessly
as if he had discovered the best of all possible worlds. He is
an optimist if ever there was one.

What is to be done?  I presented the dilemma to Jeanne Walls
who helped my parents take care of their dogs and nursed my parents
through their final illnesses. Jeane had no suggestions. Neither
did Buck Sheets, who mows our lawn. They asked at the village store.
There had been no inquiries for lost dogs. Of course, there's always
the government. I could call the animal control officer, who would
come and show his badge to the little cur and assure him:
"I'm from the government, and I'm here to help you." But I don't
trust the government.  I didn't know what to do. I invoked the
Christian directive: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,
and I imagined what I would want if I were a little black dog with
pointed ears and a wildly wagging tail. No question that I wouldn't
want to be entrusted to the animal control officer, who would most
likely send me for vivisection by bold aspiring physicians to the
physiology laboratory of the University of Virginia Medical School, -
and in my human days, I saw what they do to dogs at such institutions.
I'd rather take my chances with the hawks, with the coyotes, maybe
even the local bear, with the trigger happy hunters, with my fellow
dogs, would rather freeze to death in some cold December night than
let myself be trapped in the warmth of the humane society kennel
only to be transported to the physiology lab.
 
After letting the poor critter starve for three days, I relented.
Some marginally spoiled chicken meat, and a moldy lamb chop from
the freezer were just what he needed.  Beneath the clothes line,
I set out a plastic butter container with water, and after he had
his fill, he lay down on his side into a deep sleep. Perhaps he
dreamed that he had finally made it into heaven.

Back at the computer, I looked up the Virginia statute about
rabies vaccination. Of course, rabies vaccine has to be administered
by a licensed veterinarian, no exception for ophthalmologists,
no Do-It-Yourself rabies vaccinations allowed.  Curiously, this
law was repealed effective October 1, 2008, and to the best I could
determine, nothing has replaced it. It seems that so far as this
Commonwealth is concerned, the rabies virus has a holiday.
In any event, I lack the humor to carry my unwelcome visitor
into a veterinarian's office, to wait, to fill out forms,
to be lectured about how to care for a dog, and perhaps even be
reported to the local authorities for not buying a dog tag for
the poor critter. In our basement, I found a moldy cardboard box
containing supplies of medical practices from ages past, all
the syringes and needles I would need to put a milliliter of
vaccine under the pelt of the little black creature. And on
the Internet also I found that Schering-Plough would sell me
for $14.99, a 10 ml. vial of Rabvac 3, - enough for ten dogs,
but I hope the other nine don't show up.  On Friday, after the
vaccine has arrived, I'll put on heavy gloves and a long sleeved
shirt and start my career as a veterinarian, and if I get bitten,
it serves me right. Then on October 7, when we go back to Belmont,
I'll say good-bye, not to the animal, but to Jeane and Buck
and tell them, there's a stray dog up at the house with which
they should deal as they see fit.

Am I doing the Right Thing? Will the god who watches over
stray dogs forgive me? I obviously need an animal ethicist.
Can you help?

Jochen