passed, Hero sat beside my chair.
I said, “Down.”
He shifted his weight to one hip and lay down.
“Roll over,” I said.
The dog obligingly showed his belly.
“Impressive,” agreed Sonny, raising an eyebrow. “And if he does all this for a stranger, imagine how well he’d perform for the person who actually trained him.”
“Exactly,” I said. I knew she would understand. “It’s not every day you meet a dog like this.”
To Hero I said, “Release,” and he got to his feet.
He started to go back to his crate, but Sonny stretched out her hand. “Come here, sweet boy.”
“Don’t feed him from the table,” I warned, unnecessarily.
Hero turned his head toward Sonny’s outstretched hand and sniffed it disinterestedly. She ran her hand over his big, blocky head, tugging at his ear. He tolerated her petting, but did not respond to it. Mystery, however, was starting to look annoyed, so I said, “It’s probably better not to give him too much attention while we’re eating. We don’t want to start a dogfight.”
“That’s the last thing this poor guy needs,” agreed Sonny, and then she hesitated. “Wait a minute. What’s this?”
Her gentle stroking had pushed one of his floppy ears backward, and even from my seat across from her I could see a darkish smudge against the pale pink underskin of his ear. I left my chair and sank down to my knees to examine it.
“It’s a tattoo,” I said, looking up at her.
She looked as surprised as I felt. “A tattoo? Who tattoos their dog’s ear?”
“Actually,” I said slowly, “it used to be a fairly common practice before microchipping. People with field champions, expensive breed stock, any kind of valuable dog, wanted to be able to identify it if the dog was stolen.”
“Good heavens. Is that what he is, then, do you think? A field champion?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Hardly anybody tattoos anymore.” I didn’t think it was necessary to add that the reason the practice had been mostly abandoned was because thieves had discovered that the simplest way to eliminate a tattooed dog’s identification was to cut off its ear.
“Well, obviously somebody does.”
My heart was beginning to pound with excitement. “Some laboratories,” I admitted, “who do research on domestic animals. A few police departments, but none around here. And”—I slid my arm around Hero’s neck as I looked up at Sonny, suddenly filled with certainty— “service dog organizations.”
Chapter Five
There are dozens upon dozens of agencies in the United States that supply service dogs to people who are blind or otherwise disabled, and all of them do remarkable work. Most of them actually retain legal ownership of the dogs they train even after they are placed with a person with a disability, and perform regular follow-up visits to make sure the match is still going well. All of them keep excellent records.
I started calling as soon as anyone could reasonably be expected to be in the office Monday morning, and I was a bit disappointed when the two biggest agencies, Leader Dogs for the Blind and Canine Companions for Independence, both reported that the tattoo number I read off was not one of theirs. After that, I decided to concentrate on agencies in the Southeast. On the fifth try—Coastal Assistance Dogs, in Mount Pleasant, South Carolina—I hit pay dirt.
The man who came to the phone after I had been put on hold sounded friendly but concerned. “Miss Stockton,”he said, “my name is Wes Richards. I understand you’ve found one of our dogs?” That last part seemed to hold a note of skepticism, as though he didn’t want to accuse me of misrepresenting myself, but could hardly believe one of his dogs was actually lost.
I sat up from the slumped position I had taken in my chair at the kennel office, instantly alert and revitalized. “Your dogs?” I repeated. “Then he is one of yours? That’s your tattoo number?”
“His name is
I said, “Down.”
He shifted his weight to one hip and lay down.
“Roll over,” I said.
The dog obligingly showed his belly.
“Impressive,” agreed Sonny, raising an eyebrow. “And if he does all this for a stranger, imagine how well he’d perform for the person who actually trained him.”
“Exactly,” I said. I knew she would understand. “It’s not every day you meet a dog like this.”
To Hero I said, “Release,” and he got to his feet.
He started to go back to his crate, but Sonny stretched out her hand. “Come here, sweet boy.”
“Don’t feed him from the table,” I warned, unnecessarily.
Hero turned his head toward Sonny’s outstretched hand and sniffed it disinterestedly. She ran her hand over his big, blocky head, tugging at his ear. He tolerated her petting, but did not respond to it. Mystery, however, was starting to look annoyed, so I said, “It’s probably better not to give him too much attention while we’re eating. We don’t want to start a dogfight.”
“That’s the last thing this poor guy needs,” agreed Sonny, and then she hesitated. “Wait a minute. What’s this?”
Her gentle stroking had pushed one of his floppy ears backward, and even from my seat across from her I could see a darkish smudge against the pale pink underskin of his ear. I left my chair and sank down to my knees to examine it.
“It’s a tattoo,” I said, looking up at her.
She looked as surprised as I felt. “A tattoo? Who tattoos their dog’s ear?”
“Actually,” I said slowly, “it used to be a fairly common practice before microchipping. People with field champions, expensive breed stock, any kind of valuable dog, wanted to be able to identify it if the dog was stolen.”
“Good heavens. Is that what he is, then, do you think? A field champion?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Hardly anybody tattoos anymore.” I didn’t think it was necessary to add that the reason the practice had been mostly abandoned was because thieves had discovered that the simplest way to eliminate a tattooed dog’s identification was to cut off its ear.
“Well, obviously somebody does.”
My heart was beginning to pound with excitement. “Some laboratories,” I admitted, “who do research on domestic animals. A few police departments, but none around here. And”—I slid my arm around Hero’s neck as I looked up at Sonny, suddenly filled with certainty— “service dog organizations.”
Chapter Five
There are dozens upon dozens of agencies in the United States that supply service dogs to people who are blind or otherwise disabled, and all of them do remarkable work. Most of them actually retain legal ownership of the dogs they train even after they are placed with a person with a disability, and perform regular follow-up visits to make sure the match is still going well. All of them keep excellent records.
I started calling as soon as anyone could reasonably be expected to be in the office Monday morning, and I was a bit disappointed when the two biggest agencies, Leader Dogs for the Blind and Canine Companions for Independence, both reported that the tattoo number I read off was not one of theirs. After that, I decided to concentrate on agencies in the Southeast. On the fifth try—Coastal Assistance Dogs, in Mount Pleasant, South Carolina—I hit pay dirt.
The man who came to the phone after I had been put on hold sounded friendly but concerned. “Miss Stockton,”he said, “my name is Wes Richards. I understand you’ve found one of our dogs?” That last part seemed to hold a note of skepticism, as though he didn’t want to accuse me of misrepresenting myself, but could hardly believe one of his dogs was actually lost.
I sat up from the slumped position I had taken in my chair at the kennel office, instantly alert and revitalized. “Your dogs?” I repeated. “Then he is one of yours? That’s your tattoo number?”
“His name is
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