At that point, I decided that he must have been on his own for some time. He was friendly, and so I rode slowly back to the house, calling after him to follow, which he did. When I fed him, he was ravenously hungry. My best guess was that some idiot had turfed this poor pup out of their car up on Route 8. Oh well, their loss, my gain.
That was in 1983, and I had the pleasure of Clyde's company for almost eleven years. He turned out to be dog of rare good temperment ... he made friends of almost all who met him, and cured more than one person of their fear of large dogs.
Here's to you Clyde ... long may you run!