I just read a news story about "Fred", a Basset Hound who was found in Arizona, 430 miles away from his home in California.

We had Basset Hounds growing up.
It was my sad little attempt to to get my dad's attention.
He never talked about his past. When I'd ask to hear stories from his childhood he'd answer "Why?"---delivered not as a question, but as an definitive "back-off". But he once mentioned that he'd had a basset named "Mister" . My Dad kinda looked like a basset hound too. I remember one of the neighborhood kids approaching my father...

Kid: "Mr _______? Were you born that way?"
Dad: "What way?"
Kid: "Sad."

After my parents got divorced I begged my Mom for a basset. We got Sam. Sam was sweet and destructive. She'd do just about anything to get in your lap and she also ate right through one of the legs of our piano. She had an adorable way of collapsing belly up for a rub and spent a good deal of time digging holes along our fence line. Eventually she dug one big enough to escape through and the rest of her short life was spent on the lam. It was the same with our other basset, Kong. We found him everytime he escaped, until (cruel twist of fate) my stepmother found him squashed on Meridian Street. Bassets are escape artists, and they don't lead on that they're unhappy at home either.

Ironically, my Dad would eventually move to Florida without telling us.