Ranger - K.M. Neuhold Page 0,2
up unexpectedly, and I swallow. “Thank you. I—”
“Don’t. I love you. I’m here.”
That simple statement perfectly sums up our relationship. When we were both serving, he in the Marines and I with the Army Rangers, staying in touch was a challenge at times. We’ve had months when we couldn’t talk to each other. But one thing had always been a constant: he was there if I needed him and vice versa.
“I’ll call him and see what he can do for me.”
“Good. I’ll call you tomorrow evening to hear what he said.”
A laugh bubbles up. “You’re still as bossy as ever. I don’t know how your men put up with you.”
“I give really good head.”
I’m still grinning when I end the call.
A dog. I feel lighter, as if a tiny ray of sunshine has chased away the deepest darkness inside me. I’ll call this Julian guy tomorrow.
2
Julian
My entire adolescence, I only wanted one thing—a dog. I checked out every breed-specific book and training guide in our extensive library, and I would just about cut a bitch if my family tried to change the channel off Animal Planet while K-9 to Five was on. I was not messing around. The only problem was, my mom seemed to think we were, and I quote, “not dog people.”
As I step out of my bedroom to my pack of exceptionally well-trained, soon-to-be-placed-in-new-homes service dogs, all I can think is how very much my mom didn’t get me. The dog thing is just the start, but I digress…
Princess Pinecone, my very sweet, ancient husky, who had the misfortune of being named by my niece, who was five at the time, harrumphs as she ambles out of the bedroom, hot on my heels. Most mornings, she’s not impressed with the rest of the dogs who greet us on the other side of the bedroom door. Which is very unfair of her. After all, they don’t jump or bark; they don’t chew things or mess in the house. They do shed quite a bit, but considering the tufts of hair PP leaves around, I don’t think she has any room to judge anyone else.
I yawn, patting each of the dogs on the head and greeting them by name so none of them feel jealous or neglected. Calzone, Benny, Rita, Lila, and Theodore came to me for training just over a year ago, all from the same litter of golden retrievers.
“Time for breakfast, my dudes,” I announce, and they all politely wag their tails and beeline for the kitchen. Well, all except for PP, who bulldozes through the rest of the gang to get to the front of the line. What’s that saying about your own kids always behaving the worst? I may have the skills to train horses to star in film and TV and dogs to service disabled vets, but no one, and I mean no one, can tell a thirteen-year-old husky what to do.
I shuffle after them and hit the button on the coffee maker, then go through my routine of filling six bowls and setting each down in front of the dogs, sitting still until they’re released to eat. Even PP obeys this rule because she knows the food comes right after.
Once the dogs are all chowing down, I grab my phone from the counter, where I accidentally left it last night, and open my calendar app to check my schedule for the day while I wait for my coffee to finish brewing.
Today won’t be too busy. A call in the afternoon with a producer who needs a horse for some TV drama series. And this morning, I have an appointment with a veteran who’s interested in learning about getting a service dog.
“One of you kiddos might be getting booted out of here to a new home soon,” I inform the dogs, who all look at me but don’t seem too concerned with the information. They may not mind, but a pang hits me in the center of my chest. Training service dogs is infinitely rewarding and extremely fulfilling, but sending them off to a new home when the time comes never gets any easier. If everything goes according to plan, they all will be placed within the next month or so, and I’ll start all over with a new batch. The new puppy stage is fun but much louder and messier than when they’re fully trained. PP hates it.
Once I’m fully caffeinated, I head outside to get a start on feeding the horses. I