Finley released Arthur (two-year-old German Shepherd mix, loves Milk-Bone dog treats) from his indoor pen and snapped a leash onto his collar. Currently Furry Tails’ largest dog, Arthur wasn’t technically due for a bath until next week. But thanks to Arthur’s size, it certainly was true that they had their hands full when bathing him, so Luke wasn’t likely to become suspicious regarding her request for assistance. She handed Arthur’s leash to Luke and picked up Hazel (nine-month-old pug, strains to chase cars).
Together, they entered the pristine bathing room. Here, tile lined the floor and climbed four feet up the walls. Finley stuck her phone in the dock. “I have a music playlist for the dogs’ bath time.”
Before five seconds of the first track had passed, Luke said, “That’s not music.”
“It certainly is.”
“It sounds like a bad wind chime.”
Her lips quirked. “What qualifies as music in your book?”
“Linkin Park.”
“Goodness no. I think bath-time music should be relaxing. How about Enya?”
“Worse than the wind chime.”
“Sinead O’Connor?” He didn’t immediately shut that down. “I’m taking your lack of a growl as consent.” She put several of Sinead’s slowest and most lyrical songs in the queue and let them roll, then placed Hazel in the standing sink. Luke guided Arthur into the floor-level tub for large dogs.
“We keep a kneepad there,” she pointed, “that you can kneel on.”
“Why would I kneel?”
“You don’t have to, but several of us find it more comfortable than leaning over.”
“I’ll lean.”
She talked him through the procedure. They began by using handheld sprayers to wet the dogs’ coats with warm water. Arthur tolerated the water agreeably. Hazel, whose collar she’d attached to a short tether affixed to the wall, whined and scrambled around in circles.
Finley squirted shampoo into her palm. “Our shampoo is natural and organic. Non-toxic, free of parabens and sulfates. It has honey and oatmeal in it, among other things. The dogs smell like oatmeal cookies after their baths.”
He didn’t reply, but he did start smearing shampoo onto Arthur’s back. He seemed to be enjoying this about as much as he’d enjoy smearing mud on asphalt.
She had to bite her bottom lip to keep from laughing.
Today, Luke had on a simple white T-shirt with a pair of old jeans. His waist was lean and sleek. His upper back and shoulders, broad.
It was cold out, and the rest of them dressed in winter clothes each day. He must be hot-natured, because he came in wearing a jacket and a hoodie, then quickly peeled them off.
“What type of work did you do while in prison?” she asked.
“I don’t want to talk about my time in prison. Or any other part of my history.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t.”
“Because ... ?”
“Because I don’t like thinking about it.”
Ah! Proof that Luke needed a great deal of number four—conditioning. “Refusing to think about difficult experiences isn’t the best approach, psychologically.”
“I’ve never pretended to be a poster child for psychological health.”
She eyed the play of muscles in his sudsy forearms. “Sometimes it’s therapeutic to confront the hard parts of our past.”
“Are you a psychologist?” He spoke the words without any heat, yet his meaning was clear. He was questioning her right to lecture him on this topic.
