that emerged from the underbrush and stood watching him warily. Ben held himself motionless, waiting to see what it did. It was a black and white mountain cur, a leggy youngster, maybe six or seven months old from the looks of it. It edged farther out of the brush, twisting its body, tail hesitantly wagging.
It was thin, its ribs showing. Mountain curs were great hunting dogs; Ben figured when the CME hit some shortsighted asshole had figured he wouldn’t be able to feed the dog and simply abandoned it, not realizing what a great asset the dog could be once it was trained.
From its body language, the dog was friendly but unsure, wanted to approach but was afraid to. Likely it smelled the fish and hunger had compelled it to show itself.
“Hey,” Ben said softly. Its ears perked up at his voice. He didn’t want a dog or any other attachment, but his tours of duty had given him a deep appreciation for the war dogs, and he would never let one suffer if he could help it. The dog needed food, and he had food in his hand. If he stood and walked toward the dog, though, it would likely run.
He eased to his feet and walked slowly to the steps. Without looking directly at the dog, he broke off a piece of fish and laid it on the top step. Another piece of fish was placed halfway between there and the front door. He gradually opened the door, moved inside, and put another piece of fish on the threshold. He placed the last piece of fish three feet inside. Then he retreated all the way to the kitchen and sat down where he could see the dog, watching it through the open door.
The dog could see him, too, so he sat relaxed and motionless. He had no idea if the animal had ever been inside a house; if it hadn’t, it might not venture as far as the threshold, much less enter for the last piece of fish. Still, hunger was a powerful motivator, and the young dog wouldn’t be as cautious as an older one.
It crossed the yard toward him, still body-twisting and tail-wagging, its gaze darting back and forth between him and the food on the top step. It stopped a couple of times and backed up, sat down, got up again and ventured closer. When Ben didn’t move and nothing bad happened, the pup reached the steps and with one fast, courageous bound went to the top where it wolfed down the fish in one swallow.
It immediately pounced on the second piece of fish, then the third piece lying on the threshold.
The pup’s tail was wagging faster now, and the bright gaze fixed on Ben didn’t seem nearly as wary. “Hey,” he said again, keeping his tone soft and crooning the way the war dog handlers had spoken to their canine charges. “Come on in, buddy. There’s plenty of food and water, and a rug to bed down on, if you need a break.”
The dog eyed the last piece of fish, dashed forward to get it, then stood as if uncertain what to do next. But that tail was still wagging, even if the wagger didn’t feel ready to come within Ben’s reach just yet. It was wearing a bedraggled red collar, but no tag on the collar. If there had been one, it had been torn loose during the dog’s journey of survival—or the former owner had removed the identifying tag. Either way, the collar was proof that the dog was accustomed to humans, and so far its behavior didn’t indicate it expected mistreatment. It was just unsure of itself and the situation.
Ben looked around the kitchen. He had a lot of food, but nothing specifically for dogs. He did have jerky, though, and the pup needed some protein. He yawned and looked away—a trainer he’d deployed with had told him that a yawn told a dog there was nothing to be alarmed about—and went to the cabinet to open a pack of jerky. The pup backed up a couple of steps at his movement, but didn’t bolt. When he opened the pack, the smell of the jerky riveted the animal’s attention.
Ben went back to his chair, sat down, and took a piece of jerky from the pack, placed it on the floor at his feet.
The dog whined, and eased forward. Ben didn’t move. It grabbed the jerky, gobbled it down, then looked expectantly