Undercover by Danielle Steel

certificate.”
    “Yeah, and I think you need a chip, but since he has one, it’s not a problem. The French are pretty dog-friendly. My mom lived there for a year. She had a French bulldog and took it everywhere, even to restaurants, although Stanley is too big.” He was practically the size of a Great Dane, but Marshall liked the idea of a big dog, and he loved Stanley’s face, and he seemed good-natured and would be company on long, lonely nights.
    “I’ll take him,” Marshall suddenly said out of the blue, feeling as though he’d been possessed by aliens. He had rented an apartment in Paris and was adopting a gigantic bloodhound, all in less than a week. Maybe he was losing his mind.
    “Are you sure?” The owner looked a little stunned, but no more so than Marshall.
    “Yes, I am,” Marshall said clearly, wondering what had possessed him. Maybe it was some kind of psychosis that happened with an injury and the loss of a career. He felt a little nuts. “How do you think he’ll manage traveling cargo on the plane?” He was faintly worried about it, and didn’t want to do anything that would hurt the dog.
    “He’s never flown before, to be honest,” his owner said cautiously, “but you can get a sedative from a vet. I’ll give you the name of mine. You can take him in the cabin with you, if you say he’s a service dog.”
    “I don’t think I can pass for blind,” Marshall said seriously. Crazy maybe, but not blind.
    “They use service dogs for epileptics now, to warn them before a seizure. For depression, and a lot of other things.” He glanced at Marshall’s limp left arm as he said it, and Marshall wondered if that would work. It would be worth trying, if the dog was well behaved on the plane. Stanley looked pretty calm, and was sitting on the sidewalk again, watching passersby.
    “I’ll give it a shot, and take the sedative with me, in case they don’t buy it.” They exchanged information, and Marshall offered to pay him, but Stanley’s owner declined. He promised to deliver him the next day with all his papers, and Marshall agreed. His owner said he wanted a last night with him to say goodbye, which sounded sad, but Stanley looked depressed anyway. He wagged his tail as Marshall patted him and said, “See you tomorrow.”
    And true to his word, Stanley’s owner showed up with him at Marshall’s apartment the next afternoon. His pedigree was in order, and all his vaccination certificates. He had gotten a health certificate and proof of his chip from the vet so Marshall could take him into France. He had a bottle of sedatives, in case Stanley needed them for the trip, since Marshall had decided to say he was a service dog, as the owner had suggested, so he could keep him in the cabin. Stanley sniffed his way around the apartment in true bloodhound style. And despite his somber face, he seemed happy and wagged his tail.
    “He’s really a great dog,” his soon-to-be-ex-owner said, and looked like he was about to cry. He gave the dog a last loving pat, thanked Marshall, wished him luck, and slipped out the door, as Marshall sat staring at his new dog.
    “Well, Stanley, I hope you like Paris,” he said seriously. He had always wanted a dog, but couldn’t have one because of his work. And now he had Stanley, and an apartment in Paris. It felt like an adventure, and he was ready for it.
    The following week, he went to say goodbye to the Armstrongs, and he brought the dog. The children loved him, and Amelia said he was the funniest-looking dog she’d ever seen. And she gave Marshall a big hug when he left, and so did Brad. And he got a last look at the baby, asleep in Melissa’s arms after being nursed.
    “Take good care of my namesake,” he said, and kissed Melissa on the cheek.
    “Keep in touch, Marsh,” the president said warmly. “Let us know where you are.”
    “I will,” Marshall promised, feeling sad to say goodbye.
    The Armstrong children had added warmth and joy to his