Page 21 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“He should,” Mr. Alvarez said darkly. “He live in New York.” Mr. Alvarez swung back to me. “You no tell me piss off?”

“I swear on my student loans.”

That gave him pause. Elena translated, and his expression shifted from outrage to evaluation.

Looking at Max, he sighed in resignation and jerked his chin. “Tell him sorry.”

I put a hand to my chest. “Me?”

“I scare him.”

I laughed and looked down at Max, who was still sitting in perfect expectation and had experienced zero emotional damage beyond an unacceptable delay in sausage distribution.

“Max,” I said solemnly, “Mr. Alvarez would like to apologize for the diplomatic incident.”

Max held my gaze.

Elena wiped tears from under her eyes. “Please tell me he has a military title.”

“He does, but he mostly just answers to Max unless he’s in trouble.”

“And then?”

“Then he’s Maximus Decimus Aurelius Bradley and he knows exactly what he did.”

Military dogs traditionally outranked their handlers, and Max had made that a lifestyle. In his mind, I handled transportation, meals, and paperwork. He handled command.

Mr. Alvarez nodded in approval, as if the use of a full ceremonial name confirmed all his best instincts about us. At last, he lifted a hand in a grudging, theatrical blessing over my hot dog. “Fine. You keep buying. I forgive.”

“That’s very generous.”

He pointed the tongs at me. “Next time, no German.”

“Noted.”

Then he muttered something else in Spanish, shaking his head, and Elena translated with wicked delight. “He says if you ever actually want to tell somebody to piss off, he can teach you properly.”

“I would appreciate that.”

Even Mr. Alvarez laughed.

The crisis, such as it was, resolved, I finally handed Max a piece of hot dog. He took it with exquisite care, lips barely brushing my fingers, then chewed delicately.

“Good?” I asked him. His ears tipped forward. “I know. Fine dining.”

Elena crouched again to pet him, still smiling. “Was he really in the military?”

“Yeah.” I fed him another bite. “Retired now. He used to work out of Camp Lemonnier in Djibouti, doing joint training and detection, some missions farther out. He’s much more into city walks and emotional oversight these days.”

“Emotional oversight?”

“He believes very strongly in my routines and not enough in my boundaries.”

At that, Max nudged my wrist because I’d paused too long between pieces.

“See?” I said. “Critic.”

Mr. Alvarez shook his head. “Dog got better table manners than half my customers.”