Flirting with Love by Melissa Foster

him. “Storm had trouble sleeping last night.”
    He had a gravelly, deep voice, thick with concern at the moment. His grave concern meant that Trout had connected with Storm on an emotional level, which was one of the goals of the program. Ross was surprised to hear something from Trout other than the few words they used in training, and the worry in his normally ice-cold eyes softened Ross’s view of him.
    “That happens. Was he sick? How’s he been acting today?” He moved to the side and eyed Storm, whose eyes were bright. Storm cocked his head and panted.
    “Fine today. Fine yesterday. He whined and cried, and I tried covering the crate and talking to him.”
    “And?”
    “And.” He looked around at the empty room, then turned back to Ross. “The other inmates were bitching, so I crawled into the crate and put an arm over him.”
    “You crawled into the crate? You fit in the crate?”
    Trout cracked a crooked smile, and dimples appeared in his cheeks, taking his hulking-monster image down a notch, to that of a gentle giant. A murdering giant. This was the first real emotion he’d seen from Trout. It struck Ross that the man he’d been most concerned about might turn out to be the most compassionate.
    “Shoulders, chest. What should I have done, Doc? I couldn’t just let him cry with all the other guys hollering like they were.” Trout stayed in a special wing of the prison, where only prisoners with dogs were allowed.
    “That’s a good question. We’ve had handlers who have done what you did, but it’s rare, and we don’t encourage it, because the dogs have to learn to self-soothe. You tried covering the crate, and that didn’t work?”
    Trout shook his head real slow. “He was sad, I think.”
    “Sad?”
    Trout nodded. “Sad.”
    He wasn’t about to argue with the three-hundred-pound man. “I’d like to check him out and make sure he’s okay; then why don’t you see how he does tonight? Expect him to do well. Do whatever you normally do. If you’re still having trouble, we can figure it out. But it might have just been a onetime thing.”
    “I don’t mind lyin’ with him. Is that allowed?”
    After the first few weeks, dogs didn’t typically have issues at night. Technically, the inmates were allowed to lie with the dogs in the program, but Ross didn’t want to promote anything that would hinder the love for Storm’s crate that Storm needed to adhere to in order to pass the program. Then again, Trout was talking, and that was a different type of progress.
    “I’m worried about the size of the crate, Trout. You could crush him if you roll over onto him.”
    Trout narrowed his eyes and nodded. “I won’t.”
    “Let’s play it by ear. If it happens tonight, try talking to him. And if you have to, put just your hand in the crate. Okay?”
    “Sure, Doc. That’s a good idea.”
    They completed the training for the day, and Ross met with Walt Norton, the prison program director for Pup Partners, before he left. He let him know what was going on with Trout and Storm and asked him to keep an eye on them. Walt was in his midsixties with hollow cheeks and deep-set dark eyes, giving him a serious look, even when he smiled.
    “I’ll keep an eye on them. The program is making a difference for Trout. He’s no longer sitting by himself in the cafeteria. He’s sitting with other inmates, and he’s answering questions instead of grunting. An inmate asked him why he was sitting with them, and the guard heard him tell the guy that it was good for the dog.”
    A vital part of the dogs’ training was that they remained with their handler around the clock. They learned how to sit without begging when their handlers ate and how to react to other people and dogs, just as they would be expected to behave outside of the prison.
    Walt shook his head. “Good for the dog. He’s a stone-cold killer. Hasn’t done more than grunt or nod since he arrived fifteen years ago, and a dog pulls him out of