OXFORD — Every newspaper gets them in the mail. The plain white envelopes are wrinkled or tattered as if from a rarely used stockpile. The address on the outside and the letter on the inside are handwritten, not neatly. The first five words are always the same. “This is to the person …”

The letters come from people who are hurt, offended, angry. “This is to the person who smashed my mailbox.” “This is to the person who ran over my cat.” “This is to the person who took the flowers from my husband’s grave.”

Today, my version.

“This is to the person who left a garbage bag full of puppies on a roadside near Starkville about 14 years ago.”

The passel of puppies was a chocolate lab mix. The “mix” aspect is probably what led to them being orphaned. All had parvo virus — except one — and were put to sleep by the gentle, caring veterinarian to whom they were taken.

The survivor was Abigail, known casually as Abby.

Abby was a criminal in her youth. Our daughter, who got Abby from the veterinarian, said the dog lived quietly and played quietly in her room at McKee Hall at Mississippi State University — seemingly smart enough to sense that she should avoid being “discovered” by the dorm’s rule-enforcers.

This lasted several months, but Abby was found — an indiscreet “woof” in the night — and had to go live off-campus, with our daughter in tow.

Eventually, graduation came and Abby came to reside with my wife and me in Vicksburg. Her rescuer moved on, got married and eventually started coming to Vicksburg with more offspring — her own this time. Abby accepted them graciously, even as they used her for a pillow, pulled on her ears to see if they were detachable. They weren’t.

Abby’s passion, as with many labs, was retrieving.

I’m told there’s a phrase supervisors in restaurants invoke, even when the wait staff is weary. “If you’ve got time to lean, you’ve got time to clean.” Abby’s version was, “If you’ve got time enough to sit in that chair, you’ve got time enough to toss this tennis ball.” In addition to our regular games at appointed times, she would follow me around in the yard as I cut grass, dropping the ball in front of the mower. The rule she established for this game was that I would stop the mower and toss the ball, but sometimes I didn’t see it. That was OK with Abby. She’d chase the parts as they shot out from the blades, and bring them back, too. Lost a lot of tennis balls that way.

In the fall and winter as I made rounds with the rake, Abby would drop the ball into the leaf cart. In the next phase of this game, she’d have a great adventure snuffling through the debris pile at the dump site. She’d emerge with the ball in her muzzle, head cocked back and a grin on her face. Baseball players have the same posture after winning a game.

Abby had many adventures. She learned she didn’t like cows, especially when they mistook her for a calf and nuzzled her around trying to find out who she belonged to. She learned that ponds are not like swimming pools. A jump into a pool is immediately followed by a swimming motion. Use the same tactic at a pond and you look pretty silly as your paws sink deeper in the mud.

Many four-legged friends came along during Abby’s time — Bella, Thunder, Roscoe, Bailey, Maggie and Sadie. She tolerated all of them, even if she didn’t like them or understand them. None of them (except Roscoe) matched her in terms of leading (with apologies to Rick Warren) a purpose-driven life.

And that is important. With Abby, it was never about her. It was always about you. Even as she’d wear us to a fraz with that ball, she returned it, and at least implicit was that this was out of a sense of duty. She never begged for food or attention or special favors of any type. She liked a good rub or even a bath — but on your schedule, not hers.

So here’s my letter: “This is to the person who left a garbage bag full of puppies on a roadside near Starkville about 14 years ago. I’d like to let you know things worked out pretty good.”

Abby’s gone now.

But she was happy, and she made a lot of us happy for a long, long time — at least in dog years.

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Charlie Mitchell is a Mississippi journalist. Write to him at Box 1, University, MS 38677, or e-mail cmitchell43@yahoo.com.