You Lucky Dog - Julia London Page 0,9

about Jamie living somewhere without him, but Max believed Jamie would thrive in one. His brother wasn’t stupid and, in fact, he was brilliant in some aspects. He just needed some extra help, and maybe a dog was the answer to that. As Max continued to notice the subtle changes in his brother’s behavior—such as his willingness to be touched by a dog and how the presence of a dog seemed to soothe him when he was agitated—Max began to think more about the interaction between dogs and humans and brain chemistry, particularly as it related to autism. There was not a lot of research that employed both qualitative and quantitative methods to determine if dogs were an effective social intervention and how it compared to other techniques used to help adults on the spectrum.

So he developed a research proposal around this idea. His department was on board with it. So was the ACC. If Max’s research could inform their special-needs training, they were happy to supply the dogs.

Through Jamie’s social skills program, Max was able to find two adults on the spectrum willing to participate in his study. Clarence was the first dog to come on board and had begun his weekly lab rotations two months ago. For Clarence, that meant a happy adventure where he sought out treats. The ACC reported to Max that Clarence had gained four pounds since he’d begun his weekly lab rotations, the result of treats being snuck under the table to him.

Yesterday, on what was Clarence’s last day, the students threw him a goodbye party. Clarence slept through most of it. The guests had included Dr. Alanna Friedman. Like Max, she was a professor in the department and had asked Max if she might audit his lab. Dr. Friedman was cute in a sciencey sort of way with her turquoise and purple framed glasses and the messy bun of dark auburn hair at her nape. She was doing some amazing research into the effects of narcotics on the brain that Max admired. And she had a sultry little smile that he really liked, too, so he’d said yes.

It was Alanna who suggested that the lab students go for drinks after Clarence trotted off with the ACC volunteer to start his new life as a family dog. Predictably, many of the graduate students were down for that. At first, Max had hesitated. He’d had some papers to grade and some analyses to run, but it had been a while since he’d hung out with a pretty woman. It sounded like fun.

Last night happened as those nights tend to do—one drink too many, one touch too intimate—and the next thing Max knew, he was giggling like a little kid with Alanna as they slipped in through the side door of his house.

He was drunk, he was horny, and while he noticed that Hazel had not eaten her food, he was not concerned. He figured she was mad at him for coming home so late.

This morning, Max and Alanna had said an awkward goodbye, both of them clearly questioning themselves in the light of day. Max took his splitting headache and blurry vision into the kitchen in search of coffee. He padded past the utility room in his boxers and said, “Good morning, Hazel.” Generally, that would cause his dog to launch her sausage-like body across the floor, enthusiastically slipping and sliding her way to him for petting and whatever food he might offer. But this morning, Hazel didn’t move.

Max paused. She was in the same spot she’d been when he’d come in last night. Something was wrong. Was she sick? He backed up a step and changed course. He went into the utility room where she was, but as he got closer, Hazel tried to shove her body into the corner. “Whoa,” Max said.

He rubbed his eyes. He looked again. Hey. That was not Hazel.

He carefully inched down onto the floor beside the basset hound who was not Hazel. This one had the same coloring as his dog, but the markings were different, now that he looked at her . . . wait. At him.

He knew instantly what had happened—Brant had probably been high and brought the wrong dog home. That’s what Max got for hiring a pothead dog walker, even one who’d come recommended, notwithstanding his perpetual state of stoned. Fucking Brant. Max’s neighbor had vouched for him! “Yeah, sure, he walks my dog every day. Sits with him when I’m out of town,”

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