2. Quinn
QUINN
MAX CLOCKS IN AS UNION REP
The walk to Avery’s was long enough that I could convince myself it counted as exercise, but mostly because it was too short to justify using the subway. By the time I got there, the afternoon light had gone syrupy over the sidewalk, and I was tired enough to feel it in my bones.
Avery lived in a West Village townhouse that made you briefly envy generational wealth before remembering the moral complications.
Avery’s family money showed up less in the décor than in the square footage, the private outdoor garden, and the fact that her mudroom was better organized than most boutique hotels.
The townhouse had been renovated within an inch of its life in the last hundred years, but Avery had somehow made it feel less like a showpiece and more like a very expensive command center for emotionally complicated dogs.
There were original moldings, a marble fireplace, and approximately twelve thousand dollars’ worth of custom cabinetry devoted entirely to leashes, supplements, and freeze-dried liver.
I barely had one foot on the first step before the door burst open and Max came barreling out like a retired general who had just spotted a beloved but incompetent junior officer.
“There’s my man,” I said.
He reached me in three strides and planted himself against my legs with so much force I had to grab the doorframe to stay upright. He started his snuffling inspection. With a chuff of approval, he leaned his full body against me.
Avery leaned against the doorway, the golden twilight catching her buzz cut and the dog hair on her black sweatshirt. “He missed you. Also, Jocko stole Steve’s enrichment toy, and I had to mediate a hostage situation.”
I laughed and bent to kiss the top of Max’s head. “And how was my handsome war hero?”
Max looked up at me with the grave dignity of a dog who had once served his country and now had to live with my infuriating baby voice.
Avery snorted and moved aside to let us in. “Bad news. He’s been radicalized by free-range turkey treats.”
“That’s how they get you.”
The scent of dogs and shampoo greeted me, but whatever Avery had in the slow cooker smelled so delicious, I considered proposing marriage.
Avery’s house was more a working democracy run by canines with strong opinions and excellent muscle definition than it was a house.
Years ago, she’d converted the front room into something between a training space and a very tasteful hostage negotiation site.
Raised cots lined one wall, bins of leashes and toys stacked neatly against another, and a whiteboard next to the kitchen archway covered in notes written in Avery’s blocky handwriting.
ROCKO: no duck treats, soft stool
SOCKO: angel, obviously
JOCKO: enrichment first, then visitors
STEVE: wanted for war crimes
Steve, who was, in fact, female, raised her head from the bed near the radiator and stared at me unblinkingly.
“Good evening to you too,” I said.
“She knocked over an entire basket of clean towels because I told her she couldn’t have another marrow bone before dinner,” Avery said as she closed the door. “Naturally, she viewed this as oppression.”
“Obviously.”
Max, having finished greeting me, shifted into work mode.
He meandered the room with that smooth, purposeful gait a Belgian Malinois had even at rest. He was older and thicker through the chest than he’d been in his service photos, and a little more silver around the muzzle, but he still moved with unnerving competence.
“He ran point on the new shepherd mix for twenty minutes.”
“Was it successful?” I asked.
“She didn’t wail at the window when the UPS guy came, so by my standards, we’re looking at a miracle.”
I dropped my bag on the chair by the door and leaned down to rub Rocko’s ears when he nosed my thigh.
He was adorable with his serious face and velvety brown eyes.
Socko, on the other hand, arrived in a wave of pale fur, pressing her golden-retriever face into my hand as if she had never doubted that the world would love her back.
“Hi, beautiful,” I said. “You’re still the prettiest girl in the tri-state area.”
Avery snorted. “Steve heard that.”
Steve didn’t move, but she cast a judgmental look my way.
I followed Avery into the kitchen, Max at my heel now that he’d concluded his perimeter sweep. He sat beside his food station without being told, straight-backed and attentive, ears angled to catch my voice from his left side.
Seeing that always made my heart hurt a little.
Max had lost about forty percent of the hearing in his right ear while protecting his handler from an IED.
He hadn’t come to me with a dramatic movie montage and a tragic soundtrack.
He’d come with a neatly typed file, a list of commands, a stiff watchfulness, and the exhausted dignity of an animal who had already done more in his lifetime than most people ever would.
The plan had been to foster him temporarily, but then he’d looked at me with those dark, intent eyes. So, here I was, two years later, buying him butcher meat I couldn’t really afford and threatening legal action against anyone who dared refer to him as “just a dog.”
Avery set two bowls on the counter, one for me, one for Max.
“You’re aware,” I said, eyeing the glossy chunks of meat and vegetables in his dish, “that he’s eating better than I am during the day when he’s here.”
“He has a job.”
“So do I.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Your job involves plumbing, changing out dead flowers, and making copies. Not to mention being called the wrong name by men who earn enough money yet still tiny, joyless salads assembled by someone else.”
I groaned. “I was called Jacobson today.”
“You see? Today, Max mentored a former service dog who thinks ceiling fans are a government plot while men who still wear cuff links bullied you.”
I leaned against the counter and crossed my arms. “When you put it that way, my career path feels less inspiring.”
“It should. Sit down. Eat.”
There were very few people I allowed to boss me around when I was this tired, and Avery was one of them.
That was partly why our friendship worked.
She possessed the sort of wealth that made others become weird as soon as they learned about it, but she’d chosen a life that involved overworked volunteers and animal bodily fluids on a near-daily basis.
There was something deeply soothing about a woman who could’ve made a career out of being frivolous but had instead built herself into a person dogs trusted implicitly.
She spooned thick, rich chili into my bowl, sprinkled some shredded cheese over it, and slapped a hunk of buttered, homemade bread the size of a legal pad onto a plate.
“Oh, I could kiss you,” I said.
“Please don’t. Socko gets jealous.”
Hearing her name, Socko trotted into the kitchen. Avery set down Max’s bowl and waited while he held his sit.
“Okay.”
He moved with elegant restraint, lowering his head to eat without an ounce of the desperate gulping some of her newer rescue cases had. It wasn’t that he lacked appetite, but that he had self-respect. Max believed very strongly in composure.
I picked up my spoon and stirred my food.
“How bad was the office?” Avery asked.
I let out a laugh that had more wear on it than humor. “At one point, I was in a partner bathroom with a plunger thinking, wow, all those nights studying for Constitutional Law really led somewhere.”
Avery’s face didn’t change. “Did the toilet survive?”
“Barely. I can’t say the same for my sense of professional mystique.”
“It was always fragile.”
“Fair.”
Avery glared and pointed her spoon at me. She hated when I used throwaway words instead of saying what I meant.
I lifted both hands. “Right. Sorry. Lazy response. You’re correct, and I resent it.”
“There she is,” Avery said. “I was worried the toilet had concussed you.”
I smiled despite myself and took a bite. It was spectacular. Warm and spicy, the flavor burst along my tongue and made me regret every packet of ramen I’d ever called dinner.
“You made this to remind me life could still be good,” I said.
“I made it because the sound of chopping onions soothes Jocko. But I’m glad the reminder came free.”
Jocko was sprawled in the doorway where he could monitor both the front room and the kitchen, his whole body alert even at rest. He and Max had a particular respect for each other, that had been built less on play and more on mutual recognition. They both knew what work was.
That was one of the reasons Max spent so much time here.
People assumed Avery watched him because I worked all day and felt guilty about it.
Which, yes, I did feel guilty. I contained multitudes.
But I didn’t bring Max here because he couldn’t be left alone.
I brought him because he was good at helping to settle the newer dogs, especially the washouts and retirees who had been trained so hard for function that they couldn’t cope with ordinary home life at first.
We continued eating and talking about our respective days, when suddenly, a loud crash came from the front room.
Avery closed her eyes. “That’ll be Steve.”
A second crash followed, this one sounding smaller.
“Or Jocko,” she amended, and I turned to doorway. Sure enough, Jocko wasn’t sprawled in the doorway anymore.
Before either of us moved, Max rose.
He didn’t hurry. That was the thing about him. Panic was for civilians and golden retrievers with poor boundaries. He simply stood, crossed the kitchen, and paused at the archway.
In the front room, the new shepherd mix had shoved herself into the corner between a cot and the bookcase, hackles up, eyes locked on Jocko, who had apparently attempted to remove a toy from a bin and brought three leashes down with it. Socko stood nearby, shivering with concern.
“Leave it,” Avery said from behind me.
Jocko froze.