Work Text:
"Foei! No!" There was an urgent scuffling over the line, and then, despairingly: "Oh, Bear." Finally resignation set in, leaving Harold's tone almost philosophical when he said, "Why is it always the rare editions?"
John, almost to the top of the stairs, had to smile. "I don't know, Finch. Library full of dusty old books--why would he pick the ones that smell like you?"
Then he was there with them. "From your favorite bakery," he announced with pleasure, depositing the pastries in front of Harold.
"I haven't told you my favorite bakery," Harold protested, but there was that little lightening of his face, more eagerness than smile.
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Occasionally, people would get pretty intense about trying to hire John away from Harold. Money, sex--a few even tried to pitch it as saving the world.
He'd hear them out, if Harold needed the time for anything. Or he'd turn them down with however much prejudice seemed appropriate.
"Name your price, then," the latest suitor had said, exasperated, but there wasn't any price to name.
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Funny thing about military dogs: they don't train them with food. Partly because food runs out, and then what does the dog think--they weren't doing what you wanted?
But that isn't the whole reason. You don't stop to reward a dog in the field, either, but they figure that out okay.
Usually, you train them with toys, but getting to play with them isn't really the reward. The really important part is getting to play with you.
That was how John was able to take Bear away from those assholes who didn't give a damn about him, and how he knew Bear wouldn't let Harold down for anything.
A working dog doesn't obey to get something out of it. They do it because you ask.