Suspect

the back seat. She straddled the console between the front seats.

“You’re too big to stand there. Get in back.”

She panted, her tongue as long as a necktie.

“Get in back. You’re blocking my view.”

Scott tried to push her with his forearm, but she leaned into him and didn’t move. Scott pushed harder, but Maggie leaned harder, and held her ground.

Scott stopped pushing, and wondered if she thought this was a game. Whatever she thought, she seemed content and comfortable on the console.

Scott watched her pant, remembering how fiercely she lunged for Marley when she thought they were threatened. Scott roughed the fur on her powerful neck.

“Forget it. Stand wherever you want.”

She licked his ear, and Scott drove away. Leland would be furious at the way he indulged her, but Leland didn’t know everything.

10.

Maggie whined when they pulled into the training facility’s parking lot. Scott thought she seemed anxious, and rested a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t sweat it. You don’t live here anymore. You live with me.”

They were ten minutes late, but Leland’s Toyota pickup wasn’t in the lot, so Scott took out his phone. He had been brooding since Leland surprised them with the starter pistol.

Can’t have a police dog that shits out when a gun goes off.

Or a police officer.

Scott wondered if Leland noticed Scott had jumped, too, though Scott’s reaction was small compared to the dog’s. Leland would test her again, and reject her again if she reacted the same, and Scott knew Leland was right to do so. She had to be able to do her job, just as Scott had to do his, only Scott could fake it and Maggie couldn’t. Fake it ’til you make it.

Scott gripped a handful of her fur, and gently pushed her. Maggie’s tongue dripped out, and she leaned into his push.

Scott said, “Maggie.”

She glanced at him, and went back to watching the building. He liked the way she responded to him—not like a robot obeying a command, but as if she was trying to figure him out. He liked the warm intelligence in her eyes. He wondered what it was like inside her head, and what she thought about. They had been together for only twenty-four hours, but she seemed more comfortable with him, and he was more comfortable with her. It was weird, but he felt calmer having her with him.

“You’re my first dog.”

She glanced at him, and glanced away. Scott pushed again. She pushed back, and seemed content with the contact.

“I had to interview with these guys when I asked for the job. The LT and Leland asked me all these questions about why I wanted to join K-9, and what kind of dog I had when I was a kid, and all this stuff. I lied my ass off. We had cats.”

Maggie’s big head swung his way, and she licked his face. Scott let her for a moment, then pushed her away. She went back to watching the building.

“Before the shooting, I never used to lie, not ever, but I lie to everyone now, pretty much about everything. I don’t know what else to do.”

Maggie ignored him.

“Jesus, now I’m talking to a dog.”

An exaggerated startle response was common in people who suffered from PTSD, particularly combat veterans, police officers, and victims of domestic abuse. Anyone will jump if someone sneaks up behind them and shouts boo!, but PTSD can amp up the startle response to crazy levels. An unexpected loud noise or a sudden movement near the face could trigger an over-the-top reaction that varied from person to person—screaming, raging, ducking for cover, and even throwing punches. Scott had an exaggerated startle response since the shooting, but was seeing improvement with Goodman’s help. He still had a long way to go, but had made enough progress to fool the review board. Scott wondered if Goodman could help with the dog.

Dr. Goodman often saw clients early before they went to work, so Scott took a chance, and called. Scott expected Goodman’s answering machine, but Goodman answered, which meant he wasn’t busy with a client.

“Doc, Scott James. You got a fast minute?”

“As fast or as slow as you like. My seven o’clock canceled. Are you doing okay?”

“Doing good. I want to ask you something about my dog.”

“Your dog?”

“I got my dog yesterday. A German shepherd.”

Goodman sounded uncertain.

“Congratulations. This must be very exciting.”

“Yeah. She’s a retired Military Working Dog. She was shot in Afghanistan, and I think she has PTSD.”

Goodman answered without hesitation.

“If you’re asking if this is possible, yes, it is. Animals can show the same symptoms as humans. Dogs, in particular. There’s extensive literature on the subject.”

“A big truck goes by, she gets nervous. She hears a gunshot, she wants to hide.”

“Mm-hm. The startle response.”

Scott and Goodman had discussed these things for hours. There were no medicines or “cures” for PTSD, other than talking. Medicines could relieve symptoms like sleeplessness and anxiety, but you killed the PTSD demon by talking it to death. Goodman was the only person with whom Scott had shared his fears and feelings about that night, but there were some things he had not even told Goodman.

“Yeah, her startle response is off the charts. Is there a fast way to help her?”

“Help her do what?”

“Get over it. Is there something I can do, so she won’t jump when a gun goes off?”

Goodman hesitated for several seconds before he responded in a careful, measured tone.

“Scott? Are we talking about a dog now, or you? Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

“My dog. I’m asking about my dog. She can’t come talk it out with you, Doc.”

“If you’re having trouble, we can increase the anxiety medicine.”

Scott was wishing he had taken a fistful of anxiety meds that morning when he saw Leland’s dark blue pickup pull into the lot. Leland saw him as he got out of his truck, and scowled, no doubt pissed off because Scott was still in his car.

Scott said, “I’m asking about my dog. She’s an eighty-five-pound German shepherd named Maggie. I’d let you talk to her, but she doesn’t talk.”

“You seem irritated, Scott. Did yesterday’s regression cause an adverse reaction?”

Scott lowered the phone and took a few breaths. Leland hadn’t moved. He was standing beside his truck, scowling at Scott.

“I’m talking about this dog. Maybe I need a dog psychiatrist. Do they make anxiety meds for dogs?”

Goodman hesitated for another several seconds, thinking, but this time he sighed before he answered.

“Probably, but I don’t know. I do know that dogs suffering from PTSD can be retrained. I would guess that, as with people, the results are varied. You and I have the advantage of medicines that can augment or temporarily alter our brain chemistry. You and I are able to discuss what happened over and over until the event loses much of its emotional potency, and becomes something more manageable.”

Goodman had gone into lecture mode, which was his way of thinking out loud, so Scott interrupted.

“Yeah, we bore it to death. Is there a short version of this, Doc? My boss is watching me, and he doesn’t look happy.”