Not wanting to get bit again, I tossed the first bite to him. He gobbled it down and ran for the plate again. Another simple voice correction and he hurried to sit once more, his head tilting as his ears folded against his head. Weirder, it was if I felt how badly he wanted it, as if I wanted to wiggle back at him and tell him it would be just fine.
Piece after piece, we got the entire steak down together. His tummy bulged in just the right way and I made a quick mental note to let him out for potty time in the next hour or two. The pup leaned against me, rubbing his face clean on my shirt. Knowing it was stupid, knowing it was a bad idea, I reached out and petted him along the chest, careful to avoid his neck. I didn't want him to think I was threatening him.
The pup yawned and nestled against my hand, choosing to rub his face on it instead. I watched, smiling down at him. A moment later, he shoved his back into my leg and flopped over, already asleep. No matter how much my instincts wanted to stay, to keep watch over the pup while he snored, I couldn't. I had other matters to attend to.
Throughout the day, I snuck him out into the quarantine yard to let him relieve himself. He was an absolute gentleman. So, what had that bite been?
It worried me.
"Unpredictable behavior," I told Carrie Ann, "is one of those terrible ways we know that dogs are sick. Did you know that?"
I pulled the pup's pictures off my phone and posted them to the local lost and found social media groups. Several people cooed, a few sneered that I was harboring a wild animal, and one in particular sent me a message with a picture of his cock. Lovely. As my social media window dinged with dumbasses, I pulled up a search engine and started to flick through photographs of wild animals, trying to nail down who my little friend was.
"Well, he's not a fox. Doesn't look much like a coyote, the color's all wrong and so's the muzzle," I muttered.
Bosco snorted at me. "Bawruff."
"I'm just trying to narrow down my options."
"Snrff."
I rolled my eyes, returning to my screen. "Everyone's a critic."
Still, the closest thing the pup looked like was a freaking wolf. That was impossible, unless someone had bought one from one of those exotic pet auctions? Wolves were absolutely illegal in our state. ...But the exotics auction was the next state over, where everything was wild and free; or at least, it was for sale for people with the money to buy whatever they wanted.
I didn't think that applied to my local area. Not everyone was dead broke, but sometimes weirdos dumped strange animals where we lived. The cursing cockatoo had gotten an African Grey friend in that way, when someone had simply thrown out a big, biting bird to try to live on his own. I'd managed to save him and get him into a rehabilitation facility for parrots a few states over, but the Grey had made life interesting for a couple of weeks.
My social media window dinged again, the message sound this time. I paused before clicking on it. If it was the dick guy again, I was going to send a report to the administrator of the group. Who knew if that guy sent those kinds of pictures to kids or not, and there were plenty of them involved in the group trying to help out the animals.
I believe you have my dog said the message, but I was captured by the profile picture.
Hudson Fontaine was a gorgeous man, a mixture of English and French while looking like neither of the two. He had wild, dark hair atop his head and brown eyes that were just a shade away from amber. His jaw was strong, covered in stubble, and his nose... didn't fit either. It looked like it'd been in more than one fight. But men that wore jackets like the one he wore in his picture? They didn't do their own fighting. They lived in towers, a million miles in the sky and away from people like me.
The intensity in his face said one thing; he was a man who was used to getting what he wanted. And some feral part of me curled my knees together and demanded I lower my head to his wishes.
I scanned through his profile, most of which was private. However, there was one neat tidbit. The guy was a founder at Fontaine Feeds. His company kept every single one of my animals happy and healthy, though I paid through the nose to make sure it happened.
"Maybe he'll give me a couple of coupons or something," I murmured as I typed. Do you have any proof of ownership, sir?
The answer was stiff and direct. I have his paperwork. I can bring it with me, along with my private veterinarian.
That's fine. So long as it identifies him as yours, I'm happy to return him to you. Where would you like to meet?
There was a pause and several instances of typing, another pause, and then more typing. I tilted my head at the screen. What was so difficult about a question like that?
I would prefer to meet where he is. He is a difficult dog to work with and if he has been destructive, I will reimburse you for your suffering. I recommend handling him with gloves and doing so at a distance.
The rescue is located at 24091 Highway 24 South in Paulinesville. You may have to use 24091 24th Street SE to make it work on your map app I
