We're tentatively calling him Poopsie. The name came from Joe's spot-on prediction that he would thank us for rescuing him by pooping in our garage.
Also, he's a Poopsie because he's clearly somebody's Little Poopsie of a dog.
Incredibly well-groomed and clean (at least, until he rolled in something in our backyard). Strawberry blonde fur that is glossy like a fox's. Pert, pointed little fox ears. Collar but no ID tag. Curly little tail that hangs ever just so. And the sky-high, largely unfulfilled expectations of sitting in my seat, sleeping in my house, and/or finding a dog treat in my hand at any given time.
And did I mention that Elise is obsessed with him? He's been on so many walks today (well, I guess she alternated between carrying him and pulling him in the wagon, so it doesn't really count as a walk) he must be exhausted, dahlings.
I hate to bring him to the local, high-kill animal shelter, so hopefully his owner will respond to the queries soon.
Poopsie, where is your mother?