"I was savoring the flavor."
"You were calculating whether you needed the Heimlich."
I poured myself a coffee and didn't answer.
The back door swung open with a blast of cool air. Gregor stepped in, dark tactical jacket zipped to his chin. Behind him, trotting with the self-importance of a visiting dignitary, was Fergus.
Gregor had decided my three-pound Yorkshire terrier was his professional responsibility. Every morning at five sharp, the giant Russian and the tiny dog conducted a perimeter sweep. Fergus no longer walked. He marched. Head high. Chest out. The posture of a dog who knew, unequivocally, that someone would start a war for him.
At six they did the same routine but with Mac strapped to Gregor’s chest.
The Dobermans at the gatehouse had not helped. Fergus had met them on Tuesday, planted all four paws on the gravel, and produced a noise like a furious squeaky toy possessed by an ancient warlord. Both Dobermans had looked at Gregor.
Gregor had looked back.
"He is with me," Gregor told them.
The Dobermans stepped aside. One of them–Duke–had followed Fergus for a while.
Fergus had been unbearable ever since.
The slipper habit had also evolved. He no longer bothered with mine, not when Gregor had begun carrying what he called "motivational rations" in his jacket pocket. Tiny chicken treats shaped like bones that smelled like a slaughterhouse condensed into a biscuit. Fergus would sit in front of Gregor with his head tipped back and one paw lifted, waiting to be paid for his service.
"You're bribing my dog," I said.
"Compensating an asset."
"He weighs less than a bag of sugar."
"He’s alert."
Fergus barked once, clearly endorsing his own performance review, then trotted to his water bowl.
"The perimeter is secure," Gregor announced.
"Good work, soldiers." I took another sip of coffee. Then I picked up one of the pancakes and tapped it against the edge of the plate.
It made a sound. "Ivan."
"Yes?"
"If I throw this at the window, will it break the glass or the pancake?"
Gregor leaned closer. "Unclear."
Artem appeared in the doorway, Mac against his shoulder. He took the plate from my hand. "No one throws breakfast."
"That's not breakfast. That's evidence."
Ivan placed a hand over his heart. "You wound me."
"Not with this I don't. It's too blunt."
"They're caramelized, you heathens."
"They're burnt, you liar."
Artem kissed my temple on his way to the coffee machine. Mac made a soft sound against his shoulder, and all three of them paused for a second, before resuming their positions.
