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Despite his intensity when playing fetch and his capacity for great and sudden bouts of violence towards his enemies, Bear’s easy-going, friendly disposition among friends means that he gets along with every dog Finch selects for him to play with.
The trick to this winning streak is a thorough background check of both dog and owner — it’s surprising what one can learn about Phoebe the French Bulldog from shelter databases and mainstream social media posts. To streamline the double background check process, Finch created a new social media site called ‘Dog Meet Dog’ — he thinks the name could perhaps have been better, but at the time Finch was splitting his attention between several monitors, and the one featuring Mr Reese and a high-speed car chase took priority.
Using his own, custom-designed social media site means that the background check process is the work of mere minutes. The sharpness of Reese’s teasing about how much Finch finds satisfaction in these background checks is blunted by the fact that he obviously finds them reassuring too, since more often than not it is Finch who chaperones Bear’s ‘doggy dates’.
(Reese went once, returned to the library with a tired-out Bear at his side and a discomforted expression on his face. He refused to elaborate, and Finch was left to put two and two together when he checked on the enthusiastic private messages of Judy, 41, owner of Boris, 4, to a friend — ‘distractingly handsome’ was the description afforded to Reese. Bear’s profile page was inundated with friend requests. Since Finch has taken over the job, he’s yet to cause such… uproar among the users of the site. Whether to be insulted or relived, Finch hasn’t decided upon.)
Today’s doggy date is with Bobby, 3, and his owner Taylor. Taylor’s online footprint is smaller than average — apart from eating, shopping and viewing habits, Finch knows little about her. This discrepancy puts him oddly on-edge — something Bear senses, judging by how closely he’s sticking to Finch’s leg.
Finch wills himself to relax before Bear gets the wrong idea.
Taylor is waiting for them by the coffee truck, wearing a pale purple jacket, just like they’d discussed in private messages. Her dog is standing at her feet, watching their approach with obvious anticipation, docked tail wagging — Bobby’s a large dog, slightly shorter than Bear, with brown, wiry hair. He’s a terrier of some kind, rescued from a neglectful home two years ago (his background check was more lucrative than his owner’s).
As soon as they’re close enough, Finch bends slightly to let Bear off his leash. Bobby, likewise now loose, dashes forwards to meet him.
Bear ignores his potential new friend, much to everyone’s surprise — especially Bobby, who spins comically in place once Bear has passed him. Bear’s body language means business, and Finch has only a moment to realise what’s happening before Bear is pressing his nose insistently into the folds of Taylor’s jacket pocket.
“Oh, er—” Taylor says, trying to back away a step. The low wall next to the coffee truck stops her.
“Good afternoon, Miss Taylor,” Finch says as he reaches their little group. “I do apologise.” A tiny, harmless chuckle. “Bear’s very friendly, as you can see.”
Finch’s full charm offensive seems to be having no effect on Taylor at all. Bear’s still completely ignoring Bobby, who has instead come over to lick at Finch’s hand. Taylor is looking increasingly nervous, starting to sweat, her eyes darting here and there. Bear is checking that Finch is watching and receiving the message as he presses his nose into her jacket again and again. Taylor sticks her hand into the pocket that Bear is indicating, holds it there for a moment before her nerve snaps like a bowstring.
One moment, Finch is eyeing her hand with wariness and worrying about his complacency with this particular background check — the next, he’s startled as a tiny bag of white powder comes flying through the air towards him. He can only watch as it harmlessly bounces off his chest and falls to the ground. When he looks up again, Taylor is running away from their meeting spot as swiftly as she can, Bobby excitedly jumping at her heels.
“Oh, dear,” he says.
Thankfully, Bear’s well-trained enough to be called off from his pursuit. Once he’s secured on his leash again, Finch laboriously bends down to pick up the tiny bag so it can be disposed of in the nearest trash can. “Mr Reese doesn’t have to know about this,” Finch tells Bear as they take a winding route back to the library.
Twice after that incident, Finch and Bear manage to have uneventful, dare he say normal , doggy dates. And then—
Toheeb, 27, a retail consultant, is already waiting when Finch and Bear arrive at their meeting spot, next to a pond with a merry collection of ducks. Tess, 4, his Border Collie, is sitting at attention next to Toheeb’s feet — she’s off her leash already. She has a long, grey and white mottled coat and an earnest expression. Her tail wag, when she spots them, is tentative yet friendly.
Toheeb holds out his hand for Finch to shake. He raises an eyebrow at the young man, but takes it, never one to shy away from formality.
Finch worries that Tess is too timid to get along with Bear, but a few sniffs and licks between them seem to settle her. Finch feels comfortable enough to let Bear off the leash, and both dogs sniff their way off the path and onto the grass.
Perhaps the doggy date is as much for Toheeb as it is for Tess — he says very little, makes no direct eye contact, has picked a less busy area of the park at a quiet time of day. Finch is happy for him to set the tone for the meeting, follows him to a nearby bench. The two men watch their dogs in comfortable silence, both taking pleasure in seeing their pets so happy. The sniffing has escalated to a chaotic and, given Tess’s quiet disposition, surprisingly energetic game of chase.
Finch can sense that Toheeb is building up to saying something a few minutes before he actually does from the way he clears his throat and starts to fiddle with his locked cell phone. “I’d, uh, like to get a coffee. Um. Over-over there.” Here, a nod of the head to the artisan coffee truck about fifty yards away. “Would you, um, li-like anything? Harold?”
Finch is touched by the request, given how much effort it clearly took to get out. “No, thank you, Toheeb,” he declines with as much kindness in his voice as he can muster. “I’ll take care of the dogs.”
The barest glance of eye contact, a small jerk of a nod, and off Toheeb goes.
Finch stands — the dogs notice the change, come over to wait at his feet as if they can read his mind. His hand reaches into his coat pocket, his fingers close around something round — the dogs start to bounce on their feet, wagging tails bumping into each other like a bizarre fencing match. Finch pulls the ball out of his pocket quickly to take them by surprise, throws it underhand as far as he can, both dogs scrambling after it in a tangle before Tess edges into the lead.
Except, Finch realises with rapidly dawning horror — that’s not a ball.
That’s a grenade .
Finch lets out a choked noise of distress as Tess dives for the grenade and picks it up in her jaws, dares not breathe as she proudly trots back to Finch with her prize. He doesn’t take his eyes off the thing as she drops it into his outstretched palm.
The pin somehow remains in place throughout that ordeal, and Finch, frozen to the spot in terror, begins an exhalation of relief — until Bear accidentally bumps into Finch’s hand with his nose. Finch startles, scrambles to stop the grenade from rolling out of his hand, at which point he feels something slip through his fingers too quick to stop it, hitting the ground with a metallic clink .
Finch looks down at the pin.
He acts.
He turns around on the spot and lobs the grenade as far as he can into the pond. It lands near the middle, scaring a few ducks into paddling away — the dogs, keen to follow the ‘ball’, are stopped by the wire railing.
The explosion, when it comes, is shrunken and muffled by the water, but it causes more unfortunate ducks to scatter, some quacking in dismay and taking flight.
Finch catches his breath for a moment, leaning his elbows on the railing, and hopes nobody saw that. He allows himself a few breaths while hunched over before he straightens up again. With his hand in his other coat pocket, he can feel the actual tennis ball.
For a man so conscious of safety, Mr Reese does seem to have an unfortunate habit of leaving dangerous things in unsuitable places.
Toheeb returns with his coffee — Tess greets him as if she wasn’t just seconds away from being blown to pieces, a composure Finch finds himself envying. Maybe a tea would have been nice, actually , he thinks.
By some miracle, Bear’s profile on the Dog Meet Dog site remains steadily at four-point-five stars out of five. (After Finch informed Reese of this, Reese jokingly suggested that maybe Finch should do a background check on himself. Finch, in return, jokingly suggested that Reese should butt out and stop leaving grenades lying around the library, or he’ll have another date with Judy to look forward to.)
Finch always double-checks his pockets for grenades now, just in case, but the absurd incident hasn’t repeated itself. He throws a legitimate tennis ball into the air, achieving more height than distance this time. Bear and his companion for today — Patch, 18 months, a grey and white Whippet — bump into each other as they run, Bear seeming not to register the impacts of the other dog’s body at all.
Patch’s owner, Stacy, 35, looks young for her age, the loose hoodie adding to the illusion. She and Finch have so far shared small talk about the weather, their thoughts regarding the quality of the tea they bought shortly after their arrival at the park, and now they’re taking turns throwing the ball for the dogs.
Patch wins the race this time, trots over to Stacy on dainty paws and drops the ball at her feet. Both dogs are tiring, the play date reaching its natural conclusion. With Patch and Bear both clipped back onto their respective leashes, Stacy and Finch agree to one last stroll, taking them along the perimeter of the park. Finch notices that Stacy has adjusted her walking pace so that Finch doesn’t have to rush — after the day he’s had, he’s secretly grateful for this small kindness. (He was considering cancelling today’s doggy date — their current Number is keeping himself and Mr Reese quite busy — but one look down at Bear’s forlorn face this morning had won him over. There’ll be time to catch up on sleep later. Hopefully.)
It isn’t a particularly warm day, grey clouds drifting overhead, but it has done nothing to deter the serious runners — their neon clothing does something to brighten their surroundings as they dance around people taking their days at a slower pace. As one passes Finch’s little group, he notices that he’s not wearing the usual runner’s attire — instead, he’s wearing rather heavy, clunky boots, dark cargo pants and a dull utility jacket.
Before Finch has time to further process this information, someone behind them suddenly yells out, “ Slechte kerel — grijp hem! ”
Bad guy — grab him : Mr Reese’s idea of a joke.
Ever obedient, Bear lunges forward at the Dutch command — it’s all Finch can do to drop the leash before Bear wrenches his shoulder or pulls him off his feet altogether.
A second later, Reese sprints past Finch, Stacy and Patch, not even acknowledging their presence — he’s on the hunt as much as Bear is.
When Finch had left the library this afternoon, Reese had assured him that everything was under control with their Number, Julian ‘The Knife’ Perkins. Clearly, the operation has gone somewhat downhill in the last hour.
Leash trailing uselessly in his wake, Bear catches up with his quarry in no time, latches onto his lower arm. The sudden shock of pain and additional weight sets the man off balance — he stumbles, but manages to keep himself on his feet.
Finch’s stomach lurches when, contrary to his nickname, the man pulls a gun out from his waistband. Reese is faster, has his own gun drawn and trained on him, centre mass.
“Drop it!” Detective Carter orders, running over from another direction, Detective Fusco not far behind her.
Bear gives the man’s arm a few shakes for good measure.
Having the wisdom to realise he’s defeated, Mr Perkins drops the gun, raises the arm that doesn’t have a sixty pound Belgian Malinois hanging off it into the air.
“Bear. Heir ,” Reese commands. Bear drops Perkins’s arm, comes over to Reese for an ear rub as reward. “Good dog.”
Leaving the two detectives to cuff their perpetrator, Reese picks up Bear’s leash and approaches Finch. Bear looks very pleased with himself, Finch notes, as does Reese.
“Detective Stills,” he announces himself, producing that badge — Finch doesn’t like to think about how he came by it. He gives Finch the end of Bear’s leash, shakes his hand.
“Harold Drake.”
“Your city thanks you for the assist.”
Finch quirks an eyebrow at him. “I’m sure.”
Stacy watches them both for a moment, then, unaware of the silent communication going on, she interrupts it. “How did Bear know to do that?” she asks Finch, and, “How did you know Bear would do that?” she asks Reese.
Reese opens his mouth to say something, but Finch beats him to it. “He’s a former police dog,” he tells her with some authority. Not far from the truth.
Stacy frowns. “It doesn’t say that on his profile.”
The response to that is instinctive, perhaps too much so. “He’s a very private pers—dog.”
Reese looks down, trying to keep a smile off his face at Finch's slip-up.
Finch turns to her. “Stacy, this has been lovely,” he says, a clear but polite dismissal he hopes she picks up on. “I appreciated you meeting us today, but we have to go. Patch,” he says to the dog with a nod. Then he nods at Reese too. “Detective.”
He leads Bear to a secluded bench, bushes growing lush on three sides surrounding it, and sits down. A few minutes later, Reese emerges from the shrubbery and joins them.
“I take it things escalated in my absence,” Finch says.
Reese shrugs, brushes a leaf off his shoulder. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”
“I know the background check wasn’t at fault this time, but these doggy dates of ours are proving… stressful.”
“I don’t know, Harold. Studies show that getting outside, moving around, socialising, it’s all key to good health.” Finch hears the amused smirk in Reese’s voice, rather than sees it on his face. “And it’s good for Bear, too.”
“Ha ha,” Finch responds, equally dry.
They both fall into a companionable silence, Bear settling down between their feet with a deep, contented sigh.
It seems almost a shame to disturb the peace of the moment, but Finch is too tired and achy to sit on a hard wooden bench for very long. Reese takes Bear’s leash as Finch stands with a small groan — Reese doesn’t comment upon this, just asks, “Shall we?”
“We shall,” Finch says, and they begin their walk back to the library side by side.
Reese fishes something from his pocket and hands it down to Bear, who’s happy to carry it between his jaws as he walks along. Finch’s eyes widen when he sees it, his steps falter.
“Mr Reese, is that a grenade ?” he hisses urgently, almost afraid to raise his voice. The ‘are you out of your mind’ is implied in the tone.
Reese is all calm, doesn’t break his stride. “Don’t worry, Harold. It’s just a toy.”
As if to prove it, Bear’s jaws clamp down on the toy, making it squeak obnoxiously. Finch grimaces — that noise is going to be headache-inducing — but Bear’s tail wags, so Finch supposes he’s willing to get used to it.