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CHAPTER NINE
Dex led Kelsey through the front door. All five dogs were, of course, logjammed in the hallway, Charlie and Ripper at the head, Lizzie tangled in a forest of legs and tails, and George and Lennie bringing up the rear. They all knew Kelsey as their vet, and most of the dogs enjoyed the vet, so their ears were tall and their tails busy as they waited for permission to swarm her.
Ripper, however, hated going to the vet. He was slow to trust people and hypervigilant under the best of circumstances. The chaos of the vet clinic, and the potential for being stuck with needles or otherwise discomforted, was not the best of circumstances.
He didn’t back off, because he was a guard dog in his genes. He didn’t growl or posture, because Dex knew how to train a dog, and he hadn’t given him permission for aggression. But he stood there, utterly still, an onyx statue of potential menace.
When Dex waved the dogs up, Charlie, Lizzie, George, and Lennie hurried forward, butts shimmying, and Kelsey dropped to a crouch and tried to hug them all. Ripper, unhappy with the whole thing, turned and trotted down the hallway. He ducked into the dining room and turned to peer around the corner.
When Kelsey reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a handful of dog treats, the four dogs around her sat at once, in unison, so quickly that the floor even shook a little. Ripper sat, too, and whined softly.
Dex left Kelsey with her fan club and walked back to Ripper. “Hey, bud. It’s okay.”
When he stood at his Dobie’s side, Ripper leaned against his leg. Dex was still carrying Kelsey’s medical bag, and Ripper sniffed it warily.
Kelsey stood, gave pats all around, and came toward Dex and Ripper.
“Hey, Mr. Rips. I saved you some.” She held out her hand; three cubes of meat treats lay on her palm.
Ripper took some long, deep sniffs, but he didn’t move. It occurred to Dex that he virtually never had anyone in this house. This was home, where he came to feel safe and quiet, to let his guard down. He didn’t have close friends, the kind you’d make plans with to hang out. He had brothers, and he loved them all and liked most of them, but all his socialization happened in the clubhouse or the station, or on the road.
Mr. Clement came over to see to the dogs when Dex was on the road, but otherwise, Dex had just let the first non-resident into this house in probably two years, and it was the dogs’ vet. No wonder Ripper was upset.
But Kelsey was good. She knew not to get down to Rip’s level; you did not want to be eye to eye with a Doberman feeling threatened. Neither did you want to show weakness or fear, and Kelsey was calm. She simply stood where she was, her expression soft and gentle—no teeth-baring grin—and held out her handful of treats.
Rip took another sniff and then looked up at Dex. Dex signed that it was safe to approach.
The dog did so, taking stilted, stiff-legged steps, stretching his long neck. First, he sniffed Kelsey’s hand. Then he looked past her, where his pack stood watching. He swiveled the other way and checked in with Dex. Dex signed again that it was safe.
Finally, Ripper put his nose in her hand and snatched one cube. He snarfed it down, licked his chops, considered her hand again, and then went all in. With a long, loose stride, he got close to her, hoovered the other two treats and then started snuffling at her pockets for more.
She laughed and dug a couple more out for him. As he chomped on those, she ruffled the sleek fur between his ears. Ripper had just made friends with his vet.
“That was impressive,” Dex said. “You really let him work it out on his own time.”
“I deal with aggressive dogs every day. Going to the vet is stressful—even generally gentle animals get snappish when they’re stressed. And a dog like Ripper—abused, neglected, trained to kill—it’s not his fault he sees threat everywhere.”
She stood straight and brushed her hands. Looking around at the dogs crowding the hallway with them, she added, “This is how I know you’re a good man, no matter how much you insist otherwise, Dex. I see all kinds of pet owners. I see all kinds of dog owners. I know how dogs are with good people, and with bad people, with people who really care and people who really don’t. With the exception of Charlie, almost nobody would have given even one of these dogs a second chance. You saved them all and gave them the love and care they needed to feel safe. You named them all after murderers, but you helped them become good doggos.”
“What? I didn’t name them after murderers.”
She smirked at him. “Charlie—Charles Manson. Ripper is obvious: Jack the Ripper. Lizzie, as in Borden. And George and Lennie—fromOf Mice and Men. Lennie kills a woman, and then George kills Lennie. Are you going to try to say you didn’t do that on purpose?”
He honestly had not. “I didn’t. Somebody else gave them their names. Charlie was bred to be a military dog, and he was the third pup born. The breeder called the litter the NATO litter, and they all got NATO alphabet names: Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot. When I took him on as his handler, there was already paperwork with the name Charlie, and I thought it was a decent dog name, anyway. The others all came named that way, either by their previous owner, or the shelter, or I don’t know.” He’d never felt right changing a mature rescue dog’s name. It seemed an affront to strip such a primal marker of identity from an animal already subjected to so much upheaval.
Kelsey cocked her head. “So you’re saying that Fate stepped in and brought to a man struggling under the weight of the violent things he’s done a whole pack of dogs who’ve also done violent things, and you all magically share names with murderers? That’s how you made your family?”
He’d never thought about it, and hearing it said aloud, it seemed ridiculous that it had all been happenstance, but, “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Wow. That’s … pretty cool, actually.”
They stood in the hallway, surrounded by dogs, and stared at each other. Dex didn’t half know what to think. Kelsey Helm was standing in his house, making connections in his own life he’d never seen. He’d liked her for years. He’d crushed on her for a while. She was saying now that she liked him. Her father had beaten the shit out of him—and vice versa—over her not four hours earlier, and now she was here, in his house, saying her father had told her where he lived.
His face hurt. His head. His hands. His belly. Everything, basically. The wound on his cheek was a ragged mess and would absolutely leave a nasty scar now. His jaw hurt so much he could hardly open his mouth—and his mouth was about three times its usual size.
When the dogs had alerted to a car pulling up in his driveway, he’d been finishing the stitches across his nose. Now Kelsey was here with her medical bag, offering professional assistance.
And maybe a lot more. She said she knew what she’d be getting into with him; she said she wasn’t afraid. Dex wondered if that could possibly be true.
