he’d said. “Just an old Austin hippie who has a dog-walking gig to get by.”
At the time, that had seemed entirely plausible to Max. He’d lived in Austin his whole life and had known his fair share of hippies. In fact, the current occupant of the Hoffman Chair of Neurophysics lived in a tiny house off the electric grid. And Hazel did seem happy and tired on the days Brant walked her.
Still, this was unbelievable—you couldn’t call yourself a dog walker and return the wrong dog.
“Hey, buddy, it’s okay,” he murmured, and attempted to stroke the dog’s head, but the dog pressed harder into the corner, as if he thought he was hiding. So Max turned around and sat next to the dog, carefully petting him until the dog finally melted down and pushed his head against Max’s leg with a heavy sigh.
“I get it,” Max said. “I’ve definitely had those days. Frankly, all signs point to me having one today. For what it’s worth, I’m going to personally kill Brant for doing this to you.”
The dog sighed again and rolled into Max’s thigh.
“But first, I’m going to need, like, a bucket of coffee. I’m pretty sure this situation is going to require some cognitive function, and I don’t have any just yet.”
The dog lifted his soulful eyes up to Max.
“Here’s some free advice, buddy—don’t ever let anyone talk you into drinking boilermakers.” Max scratched the dog beneath his chin before he hauled himself up and carried on into the kitchen for that much-needed coffee.
After he’d slugged some down, Max located his phone and looked for the calls he was sure would be there, all from Brant, all offering profuse apologies for the mix-up. But there were no such apologies on his phone. There were no calls from Brant. Neither did Brant answer his phone nor pick up his messages, because his voice mail was full.
Yep, he was definitely going to kill Brant in some horrifying manner. Right after work.
He dressed. Then, he tried to get the dog to eat, but he wouldn’t even look at his food. So Max put a lead on him and told him to come on. The dog stubbornly refused to move from the corner of the mudroom at first. But with a few tugs and stern words, Max eventually convinced him to get up and get in the car. He had to. He couldn’t very well leave the dog at home—if Brant called him, Max would have to duck out between classes to take this one back and exchange him for Hazel.
Where the hell was Hazel? He was worried about his Very Good Dog, a fourteen on a scale of ten on any damn day. He hoped whoever had ended up with her was taking good care of her. Hazel liked to watch Dog TV and lie on the couch with her front paws hanging off the edge. She wouldn’t understand if there was no couch. Max’s eyes got a little wet imagining Hazel trying to figure out where the couch was.
He rolled down the back seat window for the dog, and the old boy perked up at that. When they started moving, he pushed his head out the window and let his long ears fly. He even wagged his tail a little.
Max called Brant again on the way to work. He called from his office where the dog had taken up residence in another corner. He called during his advisory period. He called between classes and in the middle of grading papers.
By the end of the day, Max had reached a new level of anxiety. He was ramped up from debating whether to drag the dog around with him or leave him in his office. He opted for the latter, and during his presentation on his research progress to the department chairs, he winced every time he heard the distinctive bay of a hound down the hall. Dog’s howl was full of displeasure. He was probably alarmed by the plastic brain with the removable parts Max kept on the windowsill.
As the day wore on, he grew increasingly worried that something had happened to Hazel. He even worried about Brant. Where the hell was he? Max pictured him strung out in some alley, high on something more potent than pot.
Moreover, Brant was supposed to have been Hazel’s dog-sitter this weekend. In just two days, Max was taking Jamie on a long-planned weekend trip to Chicago to see a big regional dog show. He was