dogs being tested. You’re honing your skills, too.”
She watched them spread out, separate, and nodded in approval at the way each gave his or her dog the scent, the command.
Her own dogs whined as the others scented the air, began to roam.
“We’ll play later,” she promised them. “These guys need to do it on their own.”
She sat, noted the time, wrote it in the assignment log.
They were a good group, she thought, and should make a solid unit. She’d started with eight, but over the past ten weeks three had dropped out. Not a bad percentage, she mused, and what was left was tight, was dedicated. If they pushed through the next five weeks, they’d be a good asset to the program.
She picked up her radio, checked the frequency, then contacted Sylvia. “They’re off and running. Over.”
“Well, I hope they don’t find me too soon. I’m enjoying my book. Over.”
“Don’t forget. Sprained ankle, dehydration, mild shock. Over.”
“Got it. But until then, I’m going to eat my apple and read. See you when they haul me back. Over and out.”
To keep her own dogs occupied, and give them some consolation for not being able to play the find game with the others, Fiona ran them through their paces on the agility training equipment.
It may have looked comical to an outsider—cheerful Labs climbing up and down the ladder of a child’s sliding board, or taking that slide on command. But the skill taught and reinforced a search dog’s ability to cope with difficult footing. The fact that they enjoyed it, as well as balancing on the teeter-totter, negotiating along narrow planks, maneuvering through the open drums she’d formed into tunnels, added a bonus.
The demands of the search exercise required her to order sit-and-stays while she took radio calls from the unit, answered questions, logged in positions.
At the end of an hour, the dogs settled down with chew treats, and Fiona at her laptop. When her radio crackled, she continued to keyboard one-handed.
“Base, this is Tracie. I have Sylvia. She’s conscious and lucid. Her right ankle may be sprained and is causing her some discomfort. She appears to be somewhat dehydrated and shaky, but otherwise uninjured. Over.”
“That’s good, Tracie. What’s your location, and do you require assistance transporting Sylvia to base? Over.”
Exercise or not, Fiona logged in the location, the time, the status. She may have smiled when she heard Sylvia playing up her victim role in the background, but she created a professional and complete log.
While they’d debrief as if the search had been real, Fiona felt such moments deserved commemoration. She set trays of brownies on her picnic table, added fruit platters for the more healthy-minded, pitchers of iced tea.
She had dog biscuits and a toy for the dogs—and for Lolo, Tracie’s clever German shepherd, a gold star for her tag collar.
As she carried glasses outside, Simon’s truck drove over her bridge.
It annoyed her to feel annoyed. She was basically a happy person, Fiona thought. A friendly one. She liked Simon well enough, and his dog quite a bit. But irritation pricked nonetheless.
Maybe part of it was because he just looked good—sort of rough and arty at the same time in battered jeans and expensive sunglasses—and somehow approachable (a misconception, in her opinion) with his adorable puppy.
He let the puppy race unleashed to greet her, then bounce like an over-wound spring to the other dogs, back to her before he tore off in circles around the yard in a bid to get her dogs to play.
“Having a picnic?” Simon asked.
“Of sorts.” She mimicked his oh-so-casual tone. “I have an advanced class on their way in from a practice search. Their first with a person. So we’ll have a little celebration.”
“With brownies.”
“I like brownies.”
“Who doesn’t?”
Jaws demonstrated his opinion by trying to climb onto the picnic bench to steal a sample. Fiona simply put his front
She watched them spread out, separate, and nodded in approval at the way each gave his or her dog the scent, the command.
Her own dogs whined as the others scented the air, began to roam.
“We’ll play later,” she promised them. “These guys need to do it on their own.”
She sat, noted the time, wrote it in the assignment log.
They were a good group, she thought, and should make a solid unit. She’d started with eight, but over the past ten weeks three had dropped out. Not a bad percentage, she mused, and what was left was tight, was dedicated. If they pushed through the next five weeks, they’d be a good asset to the program.
She picked up her radio, checked the frequency, then contacted Sylvia. “They’re off and running. Over.”
“Well, I hope they don’t find me too soon. I’m enjoying my book. Over.”
“Don’t forget. Sprained ankle, dehydration, mild shock. Over.”
“Got it. But until then, I’m going to eat my apple and read. See you when they haul me back. Over and out.”
To keep her own dogs occupied, and give them some consolation for not being able to play the find game with the others, Fiona ran them through their paces on the agility training equipment.
It may have looked comical to an outsider—cheerful Labs climbing up and down the ladder of a child’s sliding board, or taking that slide on command. But the skill taught and reinforced a search dog’s ability to cope with difficult footing. The fact that they enjoyed it, as well as balancing on the teeter-totter, negotiating along narrow planks, maneuvering through the open drums she’d formed into tunnels, added a bonus.
The demands of the search exercise required her to order sit-and-stays while she took radio calls from the unit, answered questions, logged in positions.
At the end of an hour, the dogs settled down with chew treats, and Fiona at her laptop. When her radio crackled, she continued to keyboard one-handed.
“Base, this is Tracie. I have Sylvia. She’s conscious and lucid. Her right ankle may be sprained and is causing her some discomfort. She appears to be somewhat dehydrated and shaky, but otherwise uninjured. Over.”
“That’s good, Tracie. What’s your location, and do you require assistance transporting Sylvia to base? Over.”
Exercise or not, Fiona logged in the location, the time, the status. She may have smiled when she heard Sylvia playing up her victim role in the background, but she created a professional and complete log.
While they’d debrief as if the search had been real, Fiona felt such moments deserved commemoration. She set trays of brownies on her picnic table, added fruit platters for the more healthy-minded, pitchers of iced tea.
She had dog biscuits and a toy for the dogs—and for Lolo, Tracie’s clever German shepherd, a gold star for her tag collar.
As she carried glasses outside, Simon’s truck drove over her bridge.
It annoyed her to feel annoyed. She was basically a happy person, Fiona thought. A friendly one. She liked Simon well enough, and his dog quite a bit. But irritation pricked nonetheless.
Maybe part of it was because he just looked good—sort of rough and arty at the same time in battered jeans and expensive sunglasses—and somehow approachable (a misconception, in her opinion) with his adorable puppy.
He let the puppy race unleashed to greet her, then bounce like an over-wound spring to the other dogs, back to her before he tore off in circles around the yard in a bid to get her dogs to play.
“Having a picnic?” Simon asked.
“Of sorts.” She mimicked his oh-so-casual tone. “I have an advanced class on their way in from a practice search. Their first with a person. So we’ll have a little celebration.”
“With brownies.”
“I like brownies.”
“Who doesn’t?”
Jaws demonstrated his opinion by trying to climb onto the picnic bench to steal a sample. Fiona simply put his front
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