The vet gave Jethro the all clear. Aside from a mild ear infection that had him scratching, the shepherd was the picture of hearty good health.
Tim called Barnes from the parking lot to report the good news. "So when..."
"Right now," Barnes said, "Bring him over and we'll get to work."
And so the long process of desensitizing the dog began.
They were taking it slow. Puppy steps, Barnes said, with that silly high laugh. Clapping, stomping, whistling. Barnes narrated every ear flick and yawn for Tim and it wasn't so hard after all, putting all those little signs together. The shaking panic during the storm had been anything but subtle, but now Tim could spot its beginnings, the averted eyes and stiff legs that meant Jethro needed a break.
Ignoring the commotion netted the shepherd a treat. Smart dog that he was, it wasn't long before a raised voice had him wagging his tail.
Barnes reminded Tim that anticipation wasn't the same as comfort. They backed off on the rewards, barely paid the dog any attention at all while they raised a ruckus in the middle of the yard.
It took a few days. But then came a session when Barnes jerked his head to the side and wiggled his brows. Tim looked over...and there was Jethro snoozing in the heat, legs twitching with pleasant doggy dreams. Oblivious.
"Puppy steps," Barnes said, "That was step one. Ready for the next?"
When he wasn't straining his voice yelling like a fool, Tim was running Jethro through Barnes' makeshift agility course. Between the weave poles, up the A frame, through the tunnel.
The equipment was handmade. Sturdy and utilitarian, but still beautiful for the obvious care that had gone into it. It made Tim think of a boat taking slow shape in a basement.
"He's got the stuff," Barnes told Tim as they trotted past, "You could give it a real go."
But Tim wasn't interested in ribbons and trophies. All he wanted was a happy dog and restful nights.
There was flyball too, Jethro's new favorite game. Tim's too, since it meant standing off the side and letting the shepherd do the work.
And it was beautiful to watch, a canine ballet. A signal, and Jethro was off. Racing down the aisle, floating over the hurdles in his path. Smacking a big paw down on the spring-loaded pad, mouth already gaped wide, ready and eager to accept the prize as it popped out of the machine.
Glory, glory, hallelujah. A tennis ball.
Sprinting back, so damn proud of himself, always running a circle around Tim before consenting to give up his slimy treasure.
Yeah, flyball was kind of awesome.
And between flyball and agility, between desensitization exercises and advanced obedience sessions, there was jogging.
Just a few miles at first. Every day a block further at a faster pace. Until finally Jethro was the one dragging his feet and begging to go home.
Because even Barnes agreed a good dog was a tired dog, and an exhausted Tim didn't dream.
The nightmares came almost every night now. The panic attack in front of Barnes had rattled something loose, so that night after night Tim woke gasping, shaking, fearful of the dark. "You need to talk to someone." The trainer had made it a statement, matter-of-fact. Nothing to be ashamed of, and if only Tim could bring himself to believe it!
He hadn't been ashamed when he'd floundered in the past. When his father's voice whispering in his ears had drowned out his instructors, Tim hadn't hesitated to get help. No more than he would have refused the hospital if he'd broken a bone.
But in college everyone around him had been floundering too, discovering together that intelligence didn't guarantee success. Things were different now. He was different now. He was meant to be stronger.
But Tim knew Barnes was right. Jethro would sense his fear and it would feed the dog's anxiety. Not a good combination.
Not a safe combination.
So Tim starting researching. Just as he had when he looked for a dog trainer, only this time it was his mind he was instructing to a stranger's care.
This was going to take some time.
Tony stopped by Tim's desk. Made a show of looking him up and down, rubbing his chin with a speculative air. "Looking good, but still a little chubby around the cheeks, McBabyfat. I hear they can suck that right out."
"Jealously isn't a good look for you, Tony," Tim said, "Trying exercising more than just your mouth and you might catch up."
He knew he was being unfair. Taking out his fatigue on his teammate, what should have been playful banter coming out with a cutting edge that had Tony eying him warily.
"McGee."
Tim cringed and smiled over at Gibbs. "Still working on the search, Boss. Shouldn't be long now."
Gibbs nodded at that, but he didn't turn back to his computer. He just stared, until Tim could feel that hateful flush crawl up his cheeks and roost in his ears.
He cracked after a pitiful thirty seconds. "Boss? Is there som-"
"You look like crap, McGee."
The man seemed satisfied with that, looking to his own screen without waiting for Tim to sputter out a response.
Tony laughed. Loudly. "Hey, McGeek, maybe..."
"Tony." Gibbs peered over, one brow lifting high. "Work. "
It was all piling up. Tim was weary and worried and there was a burning in his belly that antacids couldn't touch.
But it was worth it.
It was worth it because it was working. Jethro hadn't had an Incident (capital 'I' in Tim's mind, always) since they'd started working with Barnes. There'd even been a storm a few nights back, a real test. They hadn't gotten to the recordings of thunder and gunshots yet, focusing on quick movements and flashing lights first.
But Jethro had slept through. Slept easy, too worn out by their earlier run to muster any panic.
Despite the improvement, Tim was still kenneling the dog during the day. He just couldn't take the risk that something would spook Jethro while he was out with the dog walker.
Barnes had very generously agreed to keep the shepherd in one of his own runs, a much better alternative to the hands-off care Tim had arranged with Red Rooster. He trusted Barnes to handle the dog and it didn't hurt that the cost was so much lower. So low, in fact, that Tim suspected Barnes felt rather sorry for him.
Tim didn't protest. He couldn't afford to be proud.
Even the discounted fee on top of the training costs was straining his budget. No cushion, no breathing room, and Tim chaffed at knowing he was one unexpected emergency away from pulling out a credit card.
He thought once of Gibb's backyard. Big, shady, with a good tall fence. Free.
And just as quickly dismissed the notion. The Boss had made it clear that Jethro was Tim's problem.
He would have been fine if the penalty fees from breaking his publishing contract hadn't drained his savings account dry. He'd only just started to recover from that financial blow, and even selling the Porsche hadn't put him back on solid ground.
Now he thought of cutting the last ties and selling the Remington. Every extra dollar would be a help, and really she deserved a better home. Deserved an owner who would put her to use. A fanciful notion, juvenile really, but to see her sitting silent, dust gathering on her keys...
It hurt.
Tim was an author. It wasn't a title he wanted, but now that he'd been published he would carry it to the end of his days.
But he wasn't a writer. Not anymore.
He'd tried. Just for his own pleasure, striving for the passion that once made his heart race. There'd been nothing there.
Nothing at all.
She really did deserve better.
Instead Tim sold the couch. It was almost new, bought only a few weeks after a crazed fan had threatened Abby's life. Buying it had been a concession, a surrender. He'd never been one for television, but the nights had been so much longer without writing to fill his time. Inane reality shows and poorly researched procedurals had been a way to while away the hours.
It was no great sacrifice when the buyer hauled it away. The television returned to its old spot on the bedroom wall. And it wasn't as if Tim entertained frequently...or at all, really.
One day. One day after the sectional was hauled away, and here was Sally at his door. Big things or small, the universe hated Tim.
"I hope you don't mind. I figured you had to live close by, so I just asked around a little."
They'd had to shift things about to get the couch out. The apartment was in a state, and Tim tried hard not to look too embarrassed by it. He showed Sally to the kitchen and put on some coffee, hiding the generic brand with his hand.
"It turns out everyone knows you." Sally had Tilly tucked under her arm. The little dog hung there like a bizarre fashion accessory, eyeing the canister of doggy treats on the container with interest. "Or Jethro, at least. They recognize you as the guy who runs everything with the big scary dog."
She looked around for the shepherd. "He's shut in the bedroom," Tim supplied, "I didn't know who was at the door."
Sally blushed and picked at a fingernail. "I hope you don't mind," she said again, "It's just...you disappeared on us, Tim. We were worried."
Tim got the impression the 'we' she spoke of was of the royal variety. The thought warmed him right through. It had never occurred to him that he might be missed.
"Thank you." There was confusion in her eyes at the gratitude, so out of proportion for the simple act of checking on a friend, but Tim just smiled and brushed aside his own reaction. "Jethro...he's been having some problems."
Sally sipped her coffee as Tim told her of the Incidents and the trainer who was helping Jethro through his phobias. And it was so nice, to talk to someone who understood, who knew what it was to share a bond with a creature so alien yet so recognizable.
"I didn't know..." There were tears in her eyes, confusing Tim at first until she reached to touch his neck, making him shiver when she traced the edge of the scar there. "He could have killed you."
In return for his story she gave her own. Another auction. Tiny wire cages, filthy, frantic dogs. Puppy mill rejects, used up bitches and ancient males, pups too deformed or stunted for the pet store. Sold cheap to other breeders hoping to squeeze out one last litter.
Sally and the other volunteers had been there to document the sad scene, and only to document. Rescuing a dog would have meant buying one, and that meant more money in the breeder's pocket. Money that would be used to buy more dogs...real rescue would only come through legislation, and for that they needed the public on their side. So they took photos when no one was watching, even managed a bit of video of the maggots squirming across a poodle's gangrenous paw.
The auction was wrapping up when Sally saw her. No different from all the others, really, just one last shivering little hound. Legs like toothpicks, rotting brown teeth, chewed ears. There was no meeting of eyes, no sudden connection, but Sally...
She couldn't walk away. Not this time.
Ten dollars. That's all Tilly's life had been worth.
Tilly had been born in a cage. She froze when confronted with grass. Tip-toed across linoleum. Scurried away from a kind hand. The world had gotten so much bigger, and she was so very small.
"But look at her now," Sally said. Dragging around Jethro's battered teddy with brave little snarls, doing battle with an opponent that outweighed her...and winning.
They grinned together at her antics. Sally's smile faded first. "Tim..."
"It wasn't his fault."
'Or mine,' Tim reminded himself.
"Can I see him?" Sally asked.
Tim hesitated. His head knew it was safe. Barnes had exposed Jethro to a few of his friends, testing his reactions to strangers, and always the dog had been welcoming. And anyway, Sally wasn't a stranger.
She was a friend.
Still...
"It's okay." Sally smiled again to show she took no offense. "Maybe next time. You could talk to his trainer."
Next time meant she intended to visit again. "Sure," Tim agreed, "Next time."
"Bring her by," Barnes said easily, "I think you'll feel better if you reintroduce them under controlled conditions. But Tim..."
Tim was down on one knee, fussing over Jethro after another run through the agility course. They'd beaten their best time, shaving off six seconds, and that called for a celebration. He looked up at Barnes' tone.
"You can't use Jethro as an excuse to cut yourself off. In another month he'll be graduating...with honors, no less. You have to learn to trust him."
Tim turned back to his dog, enduring the tongue lashing his face. Jethro reared up, planting a muddy paw on Tim's shoulder.
In that moment trust was there and came easy. But at night...
It was different when Barnes wasn't there to intervene if something went wrong. Different when Tim was alone.
"I'm working on it." Racing through the course, guiding Jethro through the obstacles, no leash between them but still a connection. Tim only needed to think of what he wanted, and it wasn't as if they were one, no, it was like they understood each other. A rare thing for Tim, to be understood. "I...I made an appointment. Like we talked about. I know it's not him...it's me."
A week later Jethro put Tim in the hospital.
