It was Friday, his third day working at the kennel, and though Thibault had shed most traces of his former life, he was always aware of the photograph in his pocket. Just as he always thought about everything Victor had said to him that day.
He was walking a mastiff on a shady trail, out of sight of the office but still on the property. The dog was enormous, at least the size of a Great Dane, and had a tendency to lick Thibault’s hand every ten seconds. Friendly.
He’d already mastered the simple routines of the job: feeding and exercising the dogs, cleaning the cages, scheduling appointments. Not hard. He was fairly certain that Nana was considering allowing him to help train the dogs as well. The day before, she’d asked him to watch her work with one of the dogs, and it reminded him of his work with Zeus: clear, short, simple commands, visual cues, firm guidance with the leash, and plenty of praise. When she finished, she told him to walk beside her as she brought the dog back to the kennel.
“Do you think you could handle something like that?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She peeked over her shoulder at Zeus, who was trailing behind them. “Is it the same way you trained Zeus?”
“Pretty much.”
When Nana had interviewed him, Thibault had made two requests. First, he asked that he be allowed to bring Zeus to work with him. Thibault had explained that after spending nearly all their time together, Zeus wouldn’t react well to long daily separations. Thankfully, Nana had understood. “I worked with shepherds for a long time, so I know what you’re talking about,” she’d said. “As long as he doesn’t become a bother, it’s fine with me.”
Zeus wasn’t a bother. Thibault learned early on not to bring Zeus into the kennels when he was feeding or cleaning, since Zeus’s presence made some of the other dogs nervous. But other than that, he fit right in. Zeus followed along as Thibault exercised the dogs or cleaned the training yard, and he lay on the porch near the doorway when Thibault was doing paperwork. When clients came in, Zeus always went on alert, as he’d been trained to do. It was enough to make most clients stop in their tracks, but a quick, “It’s okay,” was enough to keep him still.
Thibault’s second request to Nana was that he be allowed to start work on Wednesday so he’d have time to get settled. She’d agreed to that as well. On Sunday, on the way home after leaving the kennel, he’d picked up a newspaper and searched the classifieds for a place to rent. It wasn’t hard to pare the list; there were only four homes listed, and he was immediately able to eliminate two of the larger ones since he didn’t need that much room.
Ironically, the remaining two choices were on opposite ends of town. The first house he found was in an older subdivision just off the downtown area and within sight of the South River. Good condition. Nice neighborhood. But not for him. Houses were sandwiched too close together. The second house, though, would work out fine. It was located at the end of a dirt road about two miles from work, on a rural lot that bordered the national forest. Conveniently, he could cut through the forest to get to the kennel. It didn’t shorten his commute much, but it would allow Zeus to roam. The place was one-story, southern rustic, and at least a hundred years old, but kept in relatively good repair. After rubbing the dirt from the windows, he peeked inside. It needed some work, but not the kind that would prevent him from moving in. The kitchen was definitely old-school, and there was a wood-burning stove in the corner, one that probably provided the house’s only heat. The wide-plank pine flooring was scuffed and stained, and the cabinets had probably been around since the place was built, but these things seemed to add to the house’s character rather than detract from it. Even better, it seemed to be furnished with the basics: couch and end tables, lamps, even a bed.
Thibault called the number on the sign, and a couple of hours later, he heard the owner drive up. They made the requisite small talk, and it turned out the guy had spent twenty years in the army, the last seven at Fort Bragg. The place had belonged to his father, he’d explained, who’d passed away