In the summer of 1976, several stray dogs visited my suburban home near Baltimore. One became a regular, and like someone who "came to dinner", he stayed to become a large part of my life. We called him Corny because he was a corn-colored shaggy dog with a sentimental disposition. I felt that he must have a dignified formal name as well, Cornelius, to justify the "Corny" nickname. The vet we consulted said that he was about 10 months of age and healthy. He was probably a Golden Retriever/Collie cross, a splendid mixture that I later referred to as a Gollie. His paws and accents were white, but the rest of his coat was overly long Golden Retriever. His face was Collie without the long, thin muzzle. His heart was as golden as his glowing coat.

I placed a newspaper "found dog" ad, hoping to get no response. The only caller was an elderly lady who felt that he was a pup she'd given to a young couple who hadn't cared for him well. "He's better off with you," she stated and hung up abruptly.

Over the years that followed, Corny flew west to follow me to California, then east to join us in a Virginia farmhouse. Our adventures together could fill a book. The times that I cried in his mane and told him my problems. The visiting little boy whose life he saved. The day we met the huge beaver. The times he swan in the creek with my husband. The three girl dogs we adopted, whom he tutored in watchdog responsibilities such as, "That's our airspace. Bark at that airplane, and it will go away." He also explained that our cat family was his family and theirs, too.

At age 14, his life reached its end. We all mourned him. I kept expecting to see his golden form come around the corner of the house to join us on a hike, running circles around us then galloping ahead to hurry us, barking a clear, "Walk! Walk!"

We have lost many animals, but the pain of his passing lingered beyond imagination. Then, about five years later, a friend called to say that she'd found a lost dog; the dog couldn't stay with her, because her cats were attacking it; the County Humane Society was closed for the Independence day weekend. Could we keep the dog until the holiday was over?

Naturally, we agreed. One look into her car, and my heart almost stopped. The glorious golden dog's brown eyes looked into mine, and we knew each other. We went into the house, and she settled down happily. No exploring, no hesitations. She was home. The cats and other dogs recognized and accepted her at once. I had never decided clearly what I felt about the possibility of human reincarnation, much less that of animals. I kept my feelings quiet over the weekend.

When her "visit" was to end, we knew that we could not give her up. Again, an ad in the paper (unanswered), and a check-up at the vet's. He recognized her as a dog he'd seen in two counties' humane society shelters, knew she's had several owners, and remembered spaying her. She was about 10 months old.

Like Corny, Cornelia (soon nicknamed Nelia) was a Gollie. She was two inches taller, with a slightly more Collie look, and her golden coat was brushed with a little black accenting, especially around the brows.

Proponents of reincarnation say that the spirit comes back better and improved each time. While Corny's big heart made him a treasure, his rough-and-ready manners suited him to be an outdoor dog except in extreme weather. Nelia is superbly refined and determined to be a flawless housedog. When she goes out to play, she takes over the pack leader role that Corny held, athough the others (a wolf hybrid and a springer spaniel) are older. Her bark is a young soprano version of Corny's rich mellowness.

Why had the numerous previous owners put up such a lovely and mannerly dog for adoption and/or let her leave voluntarily? I have come to the conclusion that she was looking for us and wouldn't settle for anything else. She doesn't leave here. Indeed, she doesn't let us out of her sight, following so closely that her middle name became Underfoot. She sometimes steps on the back of my sandles as I walk. If we rattle car keys, she gallops to get a ride. In the car, as in the house, she has perfect manners: no accidents, no complaints, just sheer joy at being with us.

Other than being super-refined, her personality is almost identical to Corny's. Her appearance is very similar. She and I recognized each other at once, meeting again at the dog's 10th month. The other dogs and the cats recognized her, too, without the usual ruckus that greets a strange animal.

An Animal Communicator we consulted, Patty Summers, said that Nelia is certainly Corny, and that she is also his grand-daughter. The latter shocked me. Corny was the only animal we never had spayed or neutered, since he was a devoted homebody and gave no problems. Although we live amid 100 acres, it is possible that a neighborhood female visited while we were out...

I could ramble on about the many similarities, but the proof to me will always be in her mellow brown eyes, our mutual recognition, and the incredible depth of our love. Somethings we will never know; others, we know with our hearts.