Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
BODYGUARD
T he pacing in front of the bathroom isn’t helping my heart rate. I stop. The accompaniment of claws clacking on the bathroom floor on the other side of the door stops as well. I add the phone number of the local animal control services to my contacts and go back to reading the article on what to do if you find a stray dog. There aren’t any links on what to do if said dog gets inside your office. I resume my pacing, and the dog resumes his.
The front door flies open, and Gretchen rushes in with more bags than I thought possible to carry in two hands.
“Is he still here?” She looks around the office as if I would let that little creature out of the bathroom to muddy up Anders Investigations. “Where is he?”
“Bathroom.” I point my thumb to where I’ve detained the enemy.
Gretchen drops the bags and almost runs past me. “How friendly is he? Did you pet him?”
“The article advised not to. He might have rabies.”
“I didn’t see him foaming at the mouth in the photo. He’s probably just lost. Poor baby.” Gretchen twists the handle and peeks inside. The dog attempts to squeeze through the opening. “Hello, sweetie. Look at his eyes.” Gretchen squeals and crouches in front of the dog whose breed I can’t even identify.
“It’s called heterochromia.” Yeah, I googled that too.
“They’re so striking.” Gretchen motions to the bags in the middle of the reception area. “I wasn’t sure how old he was, so the clerk at the pet store suggested several kinds of kibble.”
A bark redirects our attention to the reason my night went awry. The dog, clearly satisfied that the attention is back on it, smiles. I’ve heard that dogs can smile, but seeing his muzzle stretch in a grin, his eyes sparkling, I question my original assessment.
“Food? Do you want food?” Gretchen rises and fishes out one bag. “This says for small dogs under thirty-five pounds. Do you think he is under that?”
He doesn’t look much bigger than a loaf of bread. “I have not picked it up.”
“I think he is small enough.” Gretchen stalks into the kitchenette and pulls two of my extra-wide jumbo mugs from Blend, my favorite local coffee shop. She pours the kibble into the red one that I usually use for my late-night cereal snack and sets it in front of the dog’s face.
Fully out of the bathroom, the dog sniffs the offering and tries the piled-high round brown balls. With a bark of approval, he plunges his muzzle into the food and crunches on the rapidly disappearing chow.
Gretchen fills the other bowl with water and places it next to the food. The dog’s small body is now entirely on display, which means I can tell he’s actually a boy and is not neutered. He takes Gretchen’s offering and slurps like he hasn’t had a drop of liquid in days.
“Are you lost, little guy?” Gretchen unpacks the collection of bags while the dog’s tail wags a mile a minute, painting an even bigger grin on her face.
Did the dog put a spell on my assistant already? It’s been 2.5 seconds. If he thinks that’s going to get it out of going to Animal Control, he’s got another think coming. Sugar might be my weak spot, but small things like dogs and children are most definitely not.
The middle of my reception is now a pile that includes a dog bed, a plastic mat that apparently goes under the food and water bowls, a pack of bright neon-green tennis balls, a collar and a harness, a leash, smaller bags with dog treats, and a roll of poop bags.
Poop bags in the middle of my place of business is not what I imagined this work would entail. Blood and gore? Yes. Stalkers? Absolutely. Angry spouses? Comes with the job. Poop bags? No way.
“I asked you to get something to tie the dog over till morning.” I give her my signature stare. Usually, the less I say, the more people talk. They talk themselves into whatever I need them to say or do.
“You said, and I quote: use the business card to keep the dog alive.” Gretchen pulls out her phone. “I called the shelter, and it’s currently full, which means they can’t keep him there for long if the owner is not found quickly, but. . .” She hesitates. “They do have a shelter-at-home initiative.”
“Great. And . . .” I gesture to the bags.
“Because, as a good Samaritan, you might need to keep the dog for up to thirty days.” She hands me a pack of treats and a tennis ball.
I half-choke in astonishment. “Me?”
Shelter at home? Like my home? Absolutely not. I’m not the dog-dad type.
“You take him.” I hand the tennis ball back to Gretchen.
“My apartment doesn’t allow dogs. And I’m here five days a week or more. I’ll take care of him when I’m in the office. All you have to do is feed and walk him at night.” She presses the ball into my palm.
“This is a place of business, not a charity.” I re-approach the animal and cross my arms. The dog stops drinking as his different-colored eyes peer into my soul. He goes back to smiling. It seems every time I say the word dog, his attention returns to me.
“Only for thirty days or until the owner is found.” Gretchen trails behind. “I’ll make up posters with his picture and place them around here and online. I’ll even take him to the vet.”
I bend and reach for the small black body, but he inches away. I step forward. He steps back. His smile grows wider. I ball my fists.
“This is not a game,” I say.
His ears perk up, and his tail wags as he retreats and switches to a run. I groan at the ceiling. The dog is fast for having such short legs. I chase him around the reception area, to the bathroom door, to the back door, and back to the pile of dog stuff. If I took him on my morning runs, I might actually improve my personal record. I stop and give the dog the stare I gave Gretchen minutes ago.
The dog makes a sound. Not a bark, more like a hacking cough. A stream of undigested dog food and something green, peppered with unidentifiable chunks comes out of his little mouth. It’s like watching a clown car. How can such a tiny dog throw up so much?
“He could be sick if he’s been out too long in this cold rain.” Gretchen runs over and hovers over a mountain of dog upchuck–another pile I never expected in my office.
Gretchen claps her palms on her thighs, trying to entice the dog to come to her. “Komm hier.”
I recognize that she’s speaking in her native German.
The dog runs over to her as if on command.
“What did you just say?” I ask.
“Come here.” She looks at the dog. “Come here, little guy.” Her words in English don’t have any effect on the dog. On the contrary, he backs away from her.
“Say it in German.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.” I squeeze the tennis ball.
“Komm heir.”
The dog stops. His full attention is back on Gretchen.
“I think he understands commands in German. I know K9 units train their dogs in German sometimes.” I crouch down to the dog's level. “Say something else. Like, sit or roll over.”
“Sitz,” says Gretchen.
The dog sits. My excitement grows.
“Rolle,” she says, and the dog rolls over.
“Lauf.”
The dog starts running.
“Is he like a super smart dog?” I ask.
“He’s definitely trained.”
“Which will make it so much easier for you to keep him until his owner shows up.” Gretchen side-eyes me. I glare at her, but she has her attention on the dog. “Komm.”
The dog comes to Gretchen.
“Bleib.”
This time, when I approach the dog, he does not move. Gretchen smiles at me. The dog smiles at me.
I point a finger at my assistant. “You’re on dog-sitting duty. And on finding the dog’s owner duty. Shelter is the only thing I’m providing.”
Both smile wider.
I shove my hands into my pockets. It better be less than thirty days.
I need my peace and quiet.