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Two weeks ago I found a skinny, flea-bitten scruff of a puppy with ears bigger than the rest of him, lurking in the shade under my car. Silver and Silky, my two cats, were rather wary. Nobody on the street had any idea where he came from. Certainly, nobody appeared to want him. I chased him away, helped by the cats' spitting, but he re-appeared a short while later. I weakened and gave him some dry bread and some milk and sprayed him with anti-flea stuff and the rest, as they say, is history.
Ergli, as I named him because of his hideous appearance, now lives permanently between my garden shed and the back door on a pile of old newspapers. The cats tolerate rather than like him, but he is quite fond of them and greets me with ecstatic wriggles and ferocious tail-wagging whenever I appear. His bones no longer stick out and his fleas are fast disappearing. In fact, he doesn't really deserve his name any more but it has stuck and he answers to it quite happily.
I am still trying to work out whether Ergli has been adopted by Silver, Silky and me or whether he has adopted us. I think the latter scenario is the truer picture.