Fit to be Tied (Marshals 2)

“I dunno, but he won’t eat, and that’s cause for concern. I mean, normally he eats his own weight in food a day.”

She chuckled. “Well, let’s go ahead and bring him on back.”

Once the door closed behind me, I heard movement on the other side. “You realize that now everyone can fan out, right?”

She laughed softly. “He is a big dog, Miro.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t actually eat people.”

“No, but he certainly could.”

I lifted the sweet face with the black muzzle. “Look at those eyes. Are those the eyes of a cold-blooded killer?”

When she looked at him, Chickie eased his nose out of my hand and licked my fingers.

“Awww,” she crooned. “No. He’s a sweet baby.”

“Yes, he is,” I agreed, following her down the hall to the exam room. After we weighed him—110 pounds of powerful muscle—I took a seat in the chair. Chickie rested his head in my lap, under my hand, and I petted him as Susannah said that he was down three pounds from a year ago.

“Which is a tiny amount of weight for a dog Chickie’s size,” she cautioned.

“All right,” I said, getting worried anyway, scratching behind his ears.

“Is it possible he just misses Ian?” Susannah offered. “How long’s he been gone?”

“He’s only been gone three weeks, so I doubt that’s it.”

“Was he deployed?”

“He was,” I answered, trying not to sound as dejected as I felt. The relationship part of us was still only about six months old, so when he was home I could barely keep my hands off him. Three weeks without him with no end in sight, and I was ready to climb the walls. I hated that since Ian was a reserve officer, the Army could call him up at a moment’s notice. The worrying was taking its toll on me, and I missed having him in my bed.

“Miro?”

I coughed. “Sorry, I just don’t buy Chickie starving himself ’cause Ian’s not home.”

“Oh no?”

“No. That dog doesn’t miss a meal for any reason, and normally he eats more when Ian’s gone.”

“Why?”

“’Cause Ian’s really careful with how often he feeds him, but me, not so much.”

She nodded. “I see. Well, I’d take his temperature, but our large animal thermometer broke last week, and we’re waiting on the new one to come in.”

“That’s okay. His nose is cold, so I think he’s good.”

She shook her head like I was ridiculous.

“What?”

“That’s adorable. Been watching lots of Lassie reruns, have you?”

I smirked at her, and she cackled before promising to send the doctor right in as she closed the door behind her.

I sat there with Ian’s dog and petted him more. “Whatever this is, Chick, we’ll figure it out.”

He yawned wide to show me he wasn’t all that racked up about it, himself.

When the door opened, the vet came in—Dr. Alchureiqi, who was one of the nicest men I had ever met. Chickie liked him as well, as evidenced from his quick rise and trot over.

“Oh, Mr. Wolf, why aren’t you eating?” he asked Chickie in his warm Egyptian accent. “Is it your stomach or—oh, what do we have here, wedged in our tooth?”

It was simple, but what the hell did I know? It wasn’t like Chickie was going to let me floss his teeth or something. But seriously, what kind of dog got a piece of bark stuck between his incisors? What the hell was he doing, gnawing on a tree?

A hundred and fifteen dollars later, I had an appointment to get his teeth cleaned, dog treats that helped clean off plaque, and a stern reprimand about keeping an eye on him when he went outside. I did the patronizing nodding, and everyone in the office was surprised when teeny Susannah smacked me on the arm.

“You broke your hand, didn’t you,” I teased.

“No,” she sulked, even as she shook out her fingers. My bicep was bigger than her thigh; there was no way it hadn’t hurt. “You’re built like a damn lumberjack or something.”

I chuckled and she turned a charming shade of scarlet.

We walked out the front to scattered gasps, having scared everyone again. Watching them all clutch their pets, I rolled my eyes before we hit the front door. Outside, we startled a woman when we arrived on the sidewalk, and she grabbed her kid tight as she rushed by.

Chickie was going to get a complex. It was ridiculous. I wanted to yell out that he only ate men and women, no kids, but since that would in no way help the situation, I let it go.

We crossed the street to the small parking lot, and I put Chickie in the passenger seat of my Toyota Tacoma pickup, buckled him in, and then went around to the driver’s-side door.

“Give me your wallet” came the demand at the same time I felt a gun muzzle shoved between my shoulder blades.