Reed kept talking. The dog shook harder, but with Reed holding him, Doc examined his teeth, eyes, ears.
“He’s got infections in both ears. Teeth are good. I’m going to estimate he’s between eight and nine months old, which means you double the ‘motherfucker.’”
Doc pulled a couple of dog treats out of his pocket. He put the first on the table, waited for the dog to track his gaze from treat to Reed to treat, then gobble it.
The next he held out. The dog looked at Reed again.
“Tell him it’s okay.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Reed told the dog. “Somebody offers you a cookie, you take it.”
The dog did, eyed Doc.
“I can do a test to see if he’s had his shots. I’m betting against. He’s still got his balls, too, and that needs to change. I’m going to take a look at the sample. So just keep him on the table.”
Doc went into a little alcove.
“We can keep him,” Doc said, “treat him here, but you’re his person. If you can handle it, he’d do better with you until he’s healthy. Whoever owned this dog can’t have him back. If you find who did, they need to be charged with abuse and neglect.”
“Since I’m not home all day, shouldn’t…”
The dog licked the back of Reed’s hand, looked up at him with that same combination of longing and fear.
“We’ll take it a day at a time.”
“He’s got worms. I’m going to give you medicine for that—and we’ll need a follow-up stool sample. I’ll give you an ointment for the ears, and an antibiotic. We’ll write up instructions. I’d recommend you feed him a good puppy brand. Three times a day until he hits his normal weight.
“I need to draw some blood from him, so keep him distracted.”
Reed kept them both distracted. He’d rather face a fist than a needle.
“What do you think he is? I mean, what kind of dog?”
“I think there’s some coonhound in there.” Doc pinched some skin on the dog’s flank, slid the needle in. “Might be some Lab, and a lot more of this and that. He’s not full grown. I’m going to give you some shampoo. He’s got some fleas, and that’ll take care of them. You need a bath, boy.”
Doc came around, stroking the dog. The dog didn’t shake as much, but he watched Doc, as if waiting for the gentle hand to turn mean.
“Somebody did a number on him,” Doc said. “In time, with patience and good care, he may get over it. Some do, some don’t. I’m going to put the medicine together for you, and Suzanna’ll print out instructions for all of it. Should we bill the island PD?”
Reed thought of the budget. “No, go ahead and bill me.”
Back came the smile. “In that case, I’m going to charge you cost for the medicine, and we’re going to consider the exam a public service.”
“I appreciate that. A lot.”
Doc offered the dog another treat. The dog just looked at Reed, judged it allowed, and took it.
“If you can’t keep him, we’ll find a home for him. Right now, he trusts you, and he’s had enough trauma in his short life.”
Suzanna, as they had progressed to first names, added a list of items he needed for basic puppy care, and walked him through the first application of ointment, gave him a little bag of treats and what she called pill pockets—in a variety of flavors.
He walked back to the station with the dog and the bag from the vet.
“Cecil and Matty just headed to the high school. A little dustup—just off school grounds. A couple of boys punching each other. Probably over a girl.”
“Donna.”
Her eyes narrowed at his tone. “Chief.”
“I know the rule about no personal errands, but I can’t take this dog into the market, and right now he’s stuck to me like Velcro. Suzanna Dorsey gave me a list of what I need to get for him.”
“You expect me to leave my post, go down to the market, and buy stuff for a stray dog?”
“He’s got scars on the back of his neck from somebody yanking him on a choke chain so hard and so often it cut him. He’s got infections in both ears, and is stuck to me because everybody else in his life so far has hurt him. Doc says he’s only about eight months old.”
Her chin pushed up so high her bottom lip almost disappeared. “Doc said that about the choke chain?”
“Yeah.”
“Give me the damn list.”
“Thanks. Sincerely.”
“I’m not running a personal errand for you. I’m running one for that dog. Now give me your credit card as you don’t know how much this is going to cost.”
He handed it over, decided he’d think of his own budget later.
When he finally locked the station for the night, he decided to give himself and the dog a break and drove home in the cruiser.
“You’re on parole,” Reed told him as he led the dog into the house. “Crapping and pissing in the house, chewing on anything but what I give you violates the terms of your parole. Take that seriously.”
The dog sniffed around a little in the bedroom, always with one eye cocked at Reed as Reed changed into his most ragged sweatpants, an old sweatshirt, and a pair of sneakers he hadn’t gotten around to tossing out.
Because, of the two of them, Reed knew that what came next would be messy.
He led the dog back outside, got the hose, the shampoo. And spent the first ten minutes of the project wrestling a wet dog who whined and shook and tried to escape the nightmare of soap and water.
The dog finally submitted, just staring at Reed with eyes that spoke of the pain of betrayal.
They were both soaked and not particularly happy with each other when Simone drove up.
“Better keep back. We’re a mess.”
“Suzanna Dorsey told Hildy who told CiCi you’d taken in a stray dog. I see the grapevine rings true yet again.”
“He’s on parole.” Reed ruthlessly ran the hose over the dog to wash off the shampoo and dead fleas. “And right now skirting close to the edge.”
“He has a sweet face.”
“Yeah, everybody says so. He’s also flea-bitten and has worms.”
“Abused, Suzanna said.”
“Yeah. That, too.”
Simone walked over to sit on the steps because the dog watched her as if she might throw a rock at his head. “I’m supposed to take a picture of him and text it to CiCi.”
“You should wait until he’s more presentable.”
“He’s a pretty color, sort of like a chestnut horse.”
“Apparently he’s got some coonhound in him, whatever that is.”
“Do you like dogs?”
“Sure. We had one when I was a kid. My sister named it Frisky before my brother and I could veto. She was a good dog. We lost her right before I left for college.” He glanced over. “How about you?”
“We couldn’t have a dog—or cat. My mother’s allergic. Or says she is. I never really believed her. But, yes, I like dogs. Are you keeping him?”
“I don’t know. I’m not here most of the time. Doc said they’d find him a home. He’d probably be better off, once he gets used to being around people who don’t smack him around.”
He let go of the dog to grab one of the old towels he hadn’t gotten around to tossing out—and the dog used the opportunity to shake off the water. It flew up, out, and all over Reed.
At Simone’s laugh, Reed used the towel on his own face. “Now I need a damn shower.”
“Looks like you just got one.”
“Har.” He began rubbing the dog briskly with the towel. “How do ya like that?”
The dog responded by wagging its tail and licking Reed’s face.
“Sure, sure, now we’re buddies.”
Simone watched the man rub the dog and grin while the dog wagged and licked his face.
Though she knew she’d been slipping and sliding, in that moment, with that image, she fell in love.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When Patricia decided she wanted to document her story, professionally, only one person fit the bill. And really, Seleena McMullen had been right there at the DownEast, had ridden the wave of the videos she’d taken of that idiot Paulson.
Who better?