Forensics Squad Unleashed (8 page)

Afterward I go to the den to read the
Junior Encyclopedia of Forensic Science
. I could read in my room, but I’m not in the mood to be alone right now, and I figure Dad will probably end up in the den too. Besides, I feel like hanging out with him some more—even if we don’t end up talking.

The den still smells like incense, but there is no sign of the candle. I am reading about methods for detecting poison in corpses when Dad comes in with his laptop. “Tab, I was hoping you’d want to help me to do some research”—his voice is flat, so I am not expecting much, until he adds—“about where a person might buy a German shepherd. I hear they make excellent guard dogs.”

“Dad!” I pop up from the couch. When the
Junior Encyclopedia of Forensic Science
, my favorite book in all the world, falls to the carpet, I leave it lying there. I throw my arms around my dad and then we sit on the couch next to each other.

“I promise I’ll clean up every single strand of dog hair,” I tell Dad. “And every pile of poop.”

Dad strokes my elbow. “You know, Tabitha, over the years your mom’s talked about getting a dog or a cat. She thought that after everything you’d been through, and since you were an only child, a pet would be good for you. I’m the one who always said no, mostly because I didn’t want to deal with the mess. Maybe it’s time I loosened up a little.”

“Let me guess,” I tell him. “You figured that out when you were meditating.”

I can tell Dad is trying not to smile. “Maybe.”

Dad’s laptop is open, and I can see he has googled
German shepherds + breeders + Montreal area
. I am almost too excited to think straight!

“It looks like most of the breeders are outside of the city,” Dad says as he scans the screen. “We might be able to go on the weekend.”

“What about this one?” I point to a listing that says
Kijiji—amazing deals on purebred dogs of all kinds, Montreal
.

A lot of people use Kijiji, a free online classified-ads service. Maybe the purebreds the site is advertising include German shepherds.

Dad moves the cursor so it hovers over the listing, but he doesn’t click on it. “I don’t like the idea of buying a dog on Kijiji,” he says. “Winter tires or a washing machine maybe. But not a dog. I’m more comfortable dealing with a breeder. Even if it ends up costing more.”

Dad scrolls down the page.

“Hey, what about that one?” I say. I’ve spotted a listing for German shepherd puppies. “Can you imagine how cute a German shepherd puppy would be?”

“Cute, yes, but I don’t think a puppy is the way to go,” Dad says. “For one thing, puppies are a ton of work. We’d have to paper-train him—”

“Or her.”

“Or her. I think I’m ready to deal with dog hair. But poop and pee in the house? I’d need to meditate a lot more before I could handle that. Besides, if we really want to go ahead and train him—or her—to be a guard dog, that’d be even more work, not to mention time.”

I have an idea. “What if we search for an already-trained German shepherd guard dog and see what happens? It’s worth a try.”

Because Dad knows I am even faster on the keyboard than he is, he passes the laptop over to me.

The first listing is for what someone is calling a senior German shepherd. Apparently the dog has a great personality, but he is having some trouble with his hind legs.

Dad clicks on the dog’s picture. “Poor fellow,” he says. “But I guess full range of movement is a must for a guard dog.”

There’s another listing for a German shepherd guard dog that someone wants to give away for free. Only this one isn’t good around kids. “I bet that’s code for he bites,” Dad says.

“Can you imagine Mom around a dog who bites? She’d have a heart attack every time he opened his mouth.”

Dad is already reading the next listing. “Hey, have a look at this one,” he says

I am already having a look.
Montreal dog trainer looking to sell recently retired guard dog. Price is negotiable. What matters most is finding the right home
. I click on the link for more details. It takes us to the dog trainer’s website. He specializes in training guard dogs. He has a seven-year-old German shepherd who recently retired from the guard-dog business but is in good shape. “We need to make sure he’s still capable of guarding a house,” Dad says. “And that he’s healthy…and only bites bad guys, not kids.”

“Seven is forty-nine in dog years,” I tell Dad. “That isn’t old.”

Dad chuckles—he is forty-nine too.

I click on the
Contact me
bar, and together Dad and I compose a message.
We are interested in the guard dog you have for sale. Is he still in good enough shape to guard a house? If so, we’re wondering if we could meet him.

I hit
Send
.

“You never know,” Dad is saying when the computer pings a few minutes later.

Roxie is in excellent shape and would make a fine family guard dog. I really wish I could keep her, but my place isn’t big, and I’ve already got two dogs. What matters most to me is that she goes to the right home. You can meet Roxie pretty much any time. Let me know when would work for you. I’m on Sherbrooke Street West.

Sherbrooke Street West? That’s not far from where we live. Dad must be thinking the same thing. I catch him checking the
time at the top of the computer screen—4:45
PM
. “Why don’t we write back and ask if we can go meet Roxie now?” he says.

After we set things up with the trainer—his name is Larry—Dad calls out to Mom, “Lila, Tabitha and I are going to go for a little drive. D’you want us to pick up anything while we’re out?”

“No, but thanks for asking,” Mom calls back. She must still be hard at work. Otherwise, she’d come to the door to say goodbye. Just as we are in the hallway putting on our shoes, she calls, “Don’t forget to reset the alarm when you go!”

The barking starts before Dad and I are out of the car. When Larry comes to the door, there are three German shepherds at his heels. One of them is muzzled and making a low growl. I hope that isn’t Roxie.

“Everything’s good,” Larry says, and as if on cue, the dogs settle down, even the one wearing the muzzle. I wonder if the dogs have been trained to respond to the words
Everything’s good
.

Another dog is wagging his—or is it her?—tail. The dog has one ear that sticks up and another that flops over. I hope that’s Roxie.

“Come right in.” I can feel Larry studying us. We are here to see if we like Roxie, but now I realize Larry is deciding whether he likes us.

“I’m Rob Letour,” my dad says. “And this is my daughter, Tabitha. If you don’t mind my asking, why is that dog muzzled?”

“Pixie’s a fear biter,” Larry explains. “She bites when she’s anxious. A lot of dogs who bite are fear biters. There are people like that too—the kind who snap because they’re scared.”

I’m just glad the muzzled dog isn’t Roxie. “Nice to meet you,” I say, reaching out to shake Larry’s hand firmly. I want to impress him with my good manners. “Is that one Roxie?” I ask about the dog with the funny ears.

“That’s Roxie, all right. I got her when she was a pup and trained her to be a guard dog. She was a natural—curious and alert. I rent my guard dogs out. Roxie worked at a car dealership. The people over there would have kept her longer, but I have a policy of retiring my dogs after they’ve worked six years.” Roxie has come to sit down on her hind legs next to Larry. He leans down to scratch her forehead. “This girl deserves some downtime.”

Roxie’s funny ears are pricked in a way that makes me think she knows we are talking about her.

Larry turns to us. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourselves?”

My dad goes first. “Tabitha here came up with the idea of getting a guard dog. We had a break-in a few years back.” Dad looks over at me as if he is asking my permission to go on with the story. I nod to tell him it is okay. “Tabitha and my wife were both home at the time,” he adds. “Luckily, Tabitha was in her room upstairs, so she didn’t see the thieves. Which may be why she bounced back afterward. But my wife, well, she witnessed the crime and she’s been a bit”—Dad is trying to come up with the right word—“uneasy ever since. We’ve tried everything—alarm system,
meditation, yoga, therapy—so when Tabitha suggested getting a dog, I thought it was a good idea.”

I can see Larry watching my dad, noticing how he cracks his knuckles when he talks about my mom. “It sounds like what you’re looking for is more a working dog than a family dog,” Larry says.

If I don’t say something, he may not let us have Roxie. “We’re looking for a working dog who can be part of our family.” I can’t help smiling when I say that. The sentence came out even better than I planned. “Roxie’s a beautiful dog. I promise that if you let us have her, we’ll take really good care of her.”

I know it’s a good sign when Larry and Dad start discussing money. Larry does not want much for Roxie. “But I’ve got some conditions I’d like you to agree to before I consider letting you have her,” he tells us. Roxie is used to a lot of physical activity, so she will need to be taken for walks at least twice a day. He is adamant about that, and I promise to take Roxie out every day, rain or shine.

“We have a big backyard where she can run around too,” I tell Larry. Then I look at Roxie. “Wait till you see the yard. You’ll love it.”

Larry also says Roxie needs to be fed a special raw-food diet, and he’d like her to continue to see her regular veterinarian for checkups.

“None of that’s a problem,” Dad says. “I’d like to bring my wi—”

Larry talks over my dad. “Before I decide anything, I want to meet your wi—”

For a second their faces freeze, and then Dad and Larry both start laughing.

“Can we go and get her right now?” I ask Dad.

We text Mom first to tell her to be ready. She is standing by the door when we pull up in front of the house. I hop out and get into the backseat. “Wait till you see Roxie,” I tell her. “You’re gonna love her.”

“Is it my imagination,” Mom says, “or does all this seem to be happening very quickly?”

“It feels like kismet,” Dad tells her.

“What’s kismet?” I ask. If Nico were here, he’d make some crack about kissing.

“Kismet is fate,” Dad says. “Like all of this was meant to be.”

Mom catches his eye. “All of it?” she asks. Why do I get the feeling they are talking about something I cannot understand?

“Yup,” he says, reaching over to pat the back of her hand. “All of it.”

I hate to interrupt a tender moment, but I have to. “Mom, don’t act too weird around the trainer.”

Mom turns around to look at me. “Me? Act weird?”

I am relieved when we get back to Larry’s place and Mom does not bring up the robbery. “Her coat looks shiny,” Mom says, petting Roxie. “Do you suppose that’s because of her diet, Larry?”

“Absolutely.” Then Larry looks hard at my mom. “I heard there was a break-in at your place a while back. That you were pretty traumatized afterward.”

“Oh, that was years ago.” Mom’s voice is lighter and more casual than usual, so I know she’s putting on an act.

“Roxie’s a fine guard dog,” Larry says, “but if you don’t mind my saying, I’ve had some experience with people like you—people whose homes have been broken into. People who’ve been victimized.”

“What are you trying to say exactly?” Mom asks.

“I’m saying no one else—not even a guard dog—can make it better. That’s got to come from in here.” He taps the side of his head.

I’m starting to worry. Mom hates when people offer advice about her anxiety. What if she snaps at Larry?

Mom asks Roxie to sit down and give her a paw. She laughs when Roxie responds immediately. Then Mom looks up at Larry. “Thanks,” she says to him.

That’s when Larry agrees to let us have Roxie. Mom writes him a check. Before we go, Larry demonstrates how Roxie responds to simple commands like “heel,” “down” and “stay.” He watches while I try out the commands. “Make sure to use a firm voice. Like I just did,” Larry says. He smiles a little wistfully when Roxie heels, lies down and stays. It turns out I was right about the words
Everything’s good
. They are Roxie’s cue to relax.

“What’s the cue to get Roxie to attack?” I ask Larry.

At first Larry does not answer. He just looks at me and shakes his head. “You don’t need to know stuff like that, Tabitha. When a dog like Roxie goes on the attack, things get ugly.”

“But what if we need Roxie to protect us?”

I can tell Larry is thinking about my question. “There’s one cue I’ll let you use—but don’t play around with it.” Larry gestures for me to follow him a few steps away, so Roxie won’t hear what he is about to say. “Knee him,” he whispers.

“Knee him?” I whisper back.

“Yup. That Roxie’s cue to knock someone over. Not make him bleed, just knock him—or her—over. There’s a hand signal too.”

“A hand signal?”

“Absolutely,” Larry says. “That’s in case someone is trying to prevent you from speaking.” Larry puts his hands over his mouth to demonstrate.

“Yikes.” Even thinking about that makes me nervous.

After Larry shows me the hand signal, we walk back to join my parents and Roxie. “You’ll need to work with Roxie. Practice the commands I taught Tabitha. You’ll find Roxie enjoys it,” Larry tells us, but I notice he is mostly talking to me. He must understand that Roxie is going to be
my
dog.