“Okay, sure,” I rush out, eager for him to skip all the brotherly jabs and get to the answers I need.
Dane flips through the pages before he speaks. “You can always try to remove the offending plants, but many of these are stubborn and will come back year after year.”
“Shoot.”
“You can also try barricading some of them off if you find them grouped together. You could spray them with diluted vinegar solutions, but with the size of your property and the amount of vegetation you have, that’s gonna be a full-time job and still might not even guarantee your animals won’t eat them. I once had a Labrador in here who would eat anything. The owner tried putting hot sauce on the legs of their dining table, but he still ate it.”
“This is not reassuring.”
“Just make sure your animals eat at the same times every day and receive physical and mental stimulation. Dogs chew things they’re not supposed to when they’re bored.”
A flashback plays in my mind of what Yogi and Rugger were like in my old rowhouse. They literally ate the bunk beds we made them, ripped our couch to shreds, and knocked over my television while wrestling. But they haven’t done any of that since moving to our new place in the country. Not that I have much furniture for them to destroy anyway.
“They haven’t given me much trouble since we moved,” I say. “I take them on at least one long walk every day, and they like to run with me.”
“And with the horse and the ducks and the goats... these guys are always working.”
I suck in a deep breath for the first time since my research started and smile to myself. “The girls too.”
“The girls?” Dane asks.
“My neighbors. Professor Wilde’s daughters. The boyslovethem.”
Dane crosses his arms and smiles. “Hey, goat, horse, child, it doesn’t matter. Guardian dogs like this don’t discriminate. I wouldn’t worry too much. Keep ‘em busy and they probably won’t eat stuff they shouldn’t.”
“But what if they do?”
“Then you call me. Take a picture of what they ate, if you can. And if I don’t answer, call poison control. You should probably program the number in your phone, regardless.”
“And you won’t get mad if I call you?”
“If it’s about the health and safety of an animal? No.”
My arms are around him in a bear hug before I speak. “You’re the best.”
Before he can reply, a chorus of barking from down the hall echoes off the laminate floors and wood panel walls.
“Damn it,” Dane mutters as he pushes me off and heads back toward the sound. I follow him to the kennel ward where my dogs are wagging their tails and barking at a German Shepherd.
“Sorry,” I say, and hook each dog on their leash. “What’s this guy doing here?”
My brother runs his hands through his sandy brown hair and sighs. “His name is King. His owners dropped him off for a minor procedure and never came back.”
I gasp. “What? Just today?”
“About a week ago. Between the staff, we’ve been taking turns bringing him home every night to care for him.”
“What happens if they never show up?”
“We press legal charges. And if no one on our staff can take him, then he’ll have to go to the animal shelter.”
I lower myself to get a better view of King. He’s old judging by the white around his face, but he still has that puppy-dog quality about him—like he’s always ready for a fetch and scritches behind the ear. He can’tpossibly go to an animal shelter! Those places are all cinderblocks and noise, tough little cots and a singular sad blanket for each poor animal. My heart hurts just thinking about King in one of those places.
“I’ll take him,” I say.
“Dude, what? You already have two.”
“So? I have the room.”
