Chapter 7: The Officer

On Friday at ten sharp, an Animal Services officer sat down at my kitchen table with a laptop and a clipboard.

She was a tired, kind-faced woman with a county badge.

She had the look of someone who had interviewed too many dog owners.

Truffle climbed into her lap, licked her chin and stayed there.

"He's friendly," she said.

"He was traumatized," I said. "It's in my invoice."

"I'm sure it is."

She wrote something down.

"Ms. Whitfield, I'll ask you some questions. Please answer as exactly as you can."

"I only answer exactly."

"Good. Was the Doberman growling?"

"No."

"Was he baring his teeth?"

"He was grinning."

"Grinning."

"His mouth was open and pulled back. It's not the same as baring."

She wrote that down too.

"Would you describe the Doberman as dominant?"

"I'd describe him as enthusiastic."

"Did you feel threatened?"

"I felt embarrassed," I said. "I had a spatula."

She stopped writing, and for a second her mouth twitched.

"Did the dog hurt your dog?"

"No. Truffle was lying down with his tail going. I took the tail for shock."

"You don't think it was shock?"

"I don't know what it was."

"What did the Doberman do when his owner called him?"

"He got off right away and sat down. He didn't need a leash."

She wrote: obeyed command immediately.

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