Page 86 of Doing Life

But he had strong opinions about adopting dogs from K-9 work, though, and Maynard was a total washout of both police tracking and cadaver dog training.

Sloan kinda felt like he got the poor guy.

He sat in the meet-up room. Lance and Abby were waiting out in the lobby, because meeting Abby would be stage two.

He’d met a couple of labs and one Malinois, but they hadn’t… fit.

The door opened, and a trainer in a polo shirt that readSecond Chance K-9brought in a leashed dog.

The big dog bounded into the room, ears flopping, tongue lolling. He was a light mahogany color with a black saddle pattern on his back, and black on his long ears.

Maynard the bloodhound had arrived.

The big old boy stopped, giving Sloan a look of houndy adoration. Then he yanked the leash right out of the handler’s grip and ran over to him, slobbering all over his jeans.

Sloan laughed. “Hey, buddy. Look at you. So handsome.” He rubbed those silky ears, amazed at how long they were.

That big, boofy head landed right in his hands, pushing hard. Like ‘right there, dad, right there’.

“Oh, he’s beautiful.” And perfect.

“He’s a turd, but we love him. He’s just…he’s goofy. And I have to admit, I don’t foresee him getting any less goofy.” The guy shrugged and gave him a wry grin. “Not that I’m trying to discourage you. I mean, he’s just not Super Focus Dog. He doesn’t want to hunt; he wants to play. And he’s kind of distractible.”

“That’s all right, isn’t it, Maynard?” He snuggled that big ruff. “That’s all right. I don’t mind distracted.”

Maynard looked at him, those big brown eyes just about as sharp as anything, and that son of a bitch bayed, the sound ringing through the room, echoing like a sonic goddamn boom.

“Wow.”

“Yeah, he, um, he totally has a voice, and he is not afraid to use it. He doesn’t bark though. You never hear him bark.”

“How is he around other dogs?”

“Loves them, loves to play. He does not do any tricks, and he doesn’t play ball or anything else. I mean, he likes to run around in a circle in the yard, and he likes to have ear scratches. This dog is a mess, but not in a bad way, you know. He’s just not meant to be a working dog.”

“Is the mean man maligning you, baby? Do you want Daddy to kick his butt? I know that you can do things.” And it didn’t matter to him one way or the other if he did or not.This dog could do nothing but poop and eat, and Sloan didn’t give a shit. He was taking this dog home.

This was his dog. He had its slobber on his pants. That meant Maynard was his. It was like a rule or something.

The attendant guy pushed himself up off the wall where he’d been leaning and watching. “I’ll let you two get to know each other.”

Sloan nodded, still watching Maynard, who was sniffing his pants. “Can I take him out on the leash?”

“Sure, if you think you can keep hold of him. He’s strong.”

That was not going to be an issue. “So am I.”

He wanted to see how Maynard walked. He wanted to introduce him to Lance. He wanted to introduce him to Abby. He wanted to show Maynard who his new family was fixing to be.

“Go for it. Don’t leave the building. And, please, if you have any questions, give me a holler.”

“I will.” He waited until the volunteer left, and then he sat back, looking hard at Maynard.

He was lanky and knobby-kneed and the polar opposite of Abby, with her sleek intelligence, all square where Abby was made of sharp triangles.

Somehow it made perfect sense.

“I think you’re going to be my dog.”

---