Chapter 2
JULIAN
As I step out of my bedroom to my pack of exceptionally well-trained, soon-to-be-placed-in-new-homes service dogs, all I can think is how very much my mom didn’t get me. The dog thing is just the start, but I digress…
Princess Pinecone, my very sweet, ancient husky, who had the misfortune of being named by my niece, who was five at the time, harrumphs as she ambles out of the bedroom, hot on my heels.
Most mornings, she’s not impressed with the rest of the dogs who greet us on the other side of the bedroom door.
Which is very unfair of her. After all, they don’t jump or bark; they don’t chew things or mess in the house.
They do shed quite a bit, but considering the tufts of hair PP leaves around, I don’t think she has any room to judge anyone else.
I yawn, patting each of the dogs on the head and greeting them by name so none of them feel jealous or neglected. Calzone, Benny, Rita, Lila, and Theodore came to me for training just over a year ago, all from the same litter of golden retrievers.
“Time for breakfast, my dudes,” I announce, and they all politely wag their tails and beeline for the kitchen.
Well, all except for PP, who bulldozes through the rest of the gang to get to the front of the line.
What’s that saying about your own kids always behaving the worst?
I may have the skills to train horses to star in film and TV and dogs to service disabled vets, but no one, and I mean no one, can tell a thirteen-year-old husky what to do.
I shuffle after them and hit the button on the coffee maker, then go through my routine of filling six bowls and setting each down in front of the dogs, sitting still until they’re released to eat. Even PP obeys this rule because she knows the food comes right after.
Once the dogs are all chowing down, I grab my phone from the counter, where I accidentally left it last night, and open my calendar app to check my schedule for the day while I wait for my coffee to finish brewing.
Today won’t be too busy. A call in the afternoon with a producer who needs a horse for some TV drama series. And this morning, I have an appointment with a veteran who’s interested in learning about getting a service dog.
“One of you kiddos might be getting booted out of here to a new home soon,” I inform the dogs, who all look at me but don’t seem too concerned with the information.
They may not mind, but a pang hits me in the center of my chest. Training service dogs is infinitely rewarding and extremely fulfilling, but sending them off to a new home when the time comes never gets any easier.
If everything goes according to plan, they all will be placed within the next month or so, and I’ll start all over with a new batch.
The new puppy stage is fun but much louder and messier than when they’re fully trained. PP hates it.
Once I’m fully caffeinated, I head outside to get a start on feeding the horses. I barely have the front door open when a loud bray pierces my eardrums.
“For the love of all that’s holy, Doc, your breakfast is coming,” I shout back, even though it’s useless. Doc is as deaf as a doorknob. PP immediately trots off, but the other five dogs wait for my release signal, then go about their business and stretch their legs.
As I step into the barn, the familiar, comforting smell of hay and horse hits me.
Some may call the scent an acquired taste, but I just call it home.
The horses rattle their stall doors, and Doc brays loudly again.
I feed him first. He’s been known to finagle his stall open if I make him wait too long.
How he does it is a mystery. I’m half convinced he’s not a donkey at all but an interdimensional sorcerer. Or just really smart. Whichever.
I whistle as I go about my morning chores of feeding all my furry kiddos.
Then I turn them loose so I can clean the barn.
After the horses, I tend to the chickens and finally, my one lone goat, which I was supposed to train for a movie, but goats make huskies look like honor students by comparison. Butler is my nemesis, and he knows it.
I dodge his horns as I fill his trough with alfalfa hay and then open the door that leads out to the horse pasture. He likes to hang out with the horses; he just doesn’t like me. I’m not sure why. I’m a rather friendly guy if he’d give me half a chance.
With all that done, I have just enough time to grab a shower before hopping into my truck.
Half an hour later, I pull slowly into the long driveway leading up to the house, gravel crunching under my tires. I park and double-check the notes I made after the phone call last night.
When I first answered the phone, silence greeted me on the other end of the line, and I’d figured whoever was calling had gotten a wrong number and hung up. But right when I was about to end the call, a thready, quiet voice had come through the phone.
He told me his name was Ranger and that I’d spoken to his brother Lucky.
Things clicked into place from there. Lucky had called me months ago, asking a lot of pointed questions about how my dogs could help veterans suffering from PTSD.
We’d had a good chat about things, and he’d said he’d pass the information along.
When I didn’t hear anything, I figured the brother simply wasn’t interested.
Now I’m thinking it might’ve been a little more serious than that.
I hop out of my truck, glancing around at the unkempt property.
The grass is long, and the roof looks like it might be one bad storm away from caving in.
But it also seems the front door has a fresh cover of paint, so maybe he’s working on it?
I give him the benefit of the doubt. I stride up to the door, bracing myself for whatever might be waiting on the other side.
Over the years, I’ve seen it all from vets who were mostly getting by but needed a little extra emotional support to those who looked like they might fall apart at any second, and everything in between.
I rap at the door. Within seconds, footsteps thump on the other side. I step back from the door and keep my hands out of my pockets, plastering on a big smile so I look as nonthreatening as possible; all things I’ve discovered over the years of working with vets dealing with extreme cases of PTSD.
The door swings open. Fiddlesticks, he’s hot. He’s pale and a bit skinny and looks like he hasn’t showered in a few days, but still, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.
Sadly, this isn’t Grindr, and I’m not here to drool over the dark-eyed man with the strong jaw and surprisingly long eyelashes.
“Hi, I’m Julian with Pups for Patriots,” I introduce myself, slowly extending my hand.
I learned my lesson the first time I came on way too strong, thrusting my hand out with all the enthusiasm god gave me and nearly triggered the poor woman into an attack.
Since then, I’m always careful to keep a tight lid on my eagerness, especially during the initial meeting.
“Ranger,” he answers, his voice clipped but not unfriendly. Guarded, that’s what it is.
He leads me into the living room, and luckily for everyone involved, the inside looks somewhat better kept than the outside would suggest. Not great, mind you, but not unlivable either. I take a seat on the couch he shows me to and pull my clipboard with the questionnaire out of my messenger bag.
“Like I explained on the phone last night, I’m going to start by asking some questions if that’s okay?” Ranger grunts and nods. “Do you have any physical injuries or disabilities? An amputation or a head injury that could result in seizures, anything of that nature?”
“No.” Ranger shakes his head. “Do I not qualify without a physical injury?”
“Oh no, no, that’s not it at all,” I assure him. “Part of what I’m trying to do today is to assess your specific needs so I can pair you with the right dog.”
“The right dog?” he repeats, sounding skeptical.
“Yes. While any dog can be a great companion, some of them specialize in alerting for a seizure or reacting appropriately when one happens. Others are best for aiding with stability as needed if you have a prosthetic, and so on. I’ve trained five dogs personally for different demands of care and support and have access to more through the organization if needed,” I explain.
“I can see how a dog would help with those things.” He cards his hands through his messy hair. “But I don’t get how it’s going to help with the fucked-up shit going on inside my head.”
“I’m glad you asked. First, it’s psychologically proven that having a nonjudgmental companion like a dog can be extremely comforting.
Their presence even causes endorphins to release in our brains when they’re near.
But more than that, the dogs I train can detect the initial signs of a PTSD attack.
The increased heart rate and breathing, sudden tension, even a spike in blood pressure are all detectable to them.
“When your dog notices you’re about to have an episode, they’ll start by leaning into you, then lick your hand.
For many people, the weight of a dog’s body is a great grounding technique.
You can run your fingers through their fur and talk to them.
All these things can pull you out of it.
If this isn’t enough, they can take the next step, getting between you and any other people in the room to keep both you and others safe.
They can go as far as herding you away from a situation or environment.
During the night, they’re also vigilant, able to wake you safely from a nightmare and then use these same comforting techniques I just described. ”
I’ve made this pitch to potential recipients a hundred times, but it never stops being powerful to me when their expression morphs from skeptical to hopeful in just a few sentences.
“They can do all that?” he asks quietly as if he’s afraid to hope too much.
“And more.”