This morning, I’m sitting here marveling at how life works out sometimes.

Last night, when I arrived home late from work, the garage door malfunctioned. I got out of the car grumbling “here we go again.” But then I realized it had actually functioned perfectly to keep from squashing a cute little Yorkie pup that followed my car into the garage.

After bringing the unknown puppy into the house, to the chagrin of our cats and the joy of our dog Mia, I wrapped the shivering little creature in a towel. I installed her on my husband’s lap, then set off to neighbors to see if someone recognized her, and hoping I might encounter the owners  driving around looking for her. No luck on either count.  The little dog was so friendly and had a pink bow in her fur, so I knew she was someone’s beloved pet, and they would be frantic.

At my friend Cheryl’s house, she said was taking her new puppy to the vet the next morning and kindly offered to take our “foster pup” to check if she had an identification chip.

We tried putting Lucy (I started thinking of her by that name because she’d gotten loose from her family) in a crate at the end of the bed, but she whimpered until we let her join us on the bed, along with our dog. She promptly curled up in the crook of my arm and went to sleep.

The next morning, she gobbled a bowl of food, then she and Mia bounded around the living room playing as if they’d been lifelong friends.’

I have to admit I felt a twinge of remorse when Cheryl texted me from the vet’s office to say she’d found the owner,  not through a chip — she had none — but thanks to a flyer someone had already posted at the office. I suppose a part of me was  mentally testing whether she’d fit into our family if the owners weren’t found, in spite of the fact that I’ve been heard to affirm, “No more pets!”

Recognizing my attachment to the dog (I’d make a terrible foster parent because I’d want to keep every stray) Cheryl picked me up so we could drop the pup off together.

Much to my joy, it was the dog of a family who had welcomed us to the neighborhood when we first moved here years ago. The son — now a handsome, grown young man — hugged me immediately. I remembered him and the family fondly because he had sometimes joined us for dinner after playing with our daughters when they were in first and second grade, and his parents had introduced our daughters to their first Easter Egg Hunt.

The dog, whose name turned out the be Mitzy Bitsy, had wiggled under a fence the night before, and the family had spent seven hours driving around the neighborhood frantically looking for her. Although we were both searching — I, for the owners, they, for their dog — we never saw each other.

So although I’m actually sorry to see Bitsy go, I’m thrilled she’s back in a home where she is so well loved, and with people we know, at least a  little. And Bitsy — who is ten months old — will soon be on her way to the vet to be chipped… just in case she decides to set off on a solo adventure again.

Happily, sometimes, things just work out.