A Feral Darkness by Doranna Durgin

more white on him than I thought," Elizabeth admitted, pausing in her own work.
           Or than Brenna had thought. No way, under the mud, to see how broad his blaze was, how symmetrically it encompassed his muzzle, narrowed just enough to miss his eyes, and broadened again at his forehead. Or to see the dark freckles on the bridge of his nose, or how richly his brown cheek patches stood out against the black on the rest of his head. He had a white bib and undercarriage, and except for brown points, a white tail tip, and a jagged white collar, the rest of him was sleek black. Black, aside from his ears. The interior of one was stark white; the other light brown. But it was the backs of those huge ears that were so beguiling, mostly white with thick brown freckles. Utterly unexpected, utterly charming.
           And his eyes. Coming from a clean face, they looked softer, more open. Big love-me eyes that followed her every movement.
           He's somebody else's dog .
           Brenna gave a sudden sharp shake of her head. "Gotta figure out who owns him."
           "Yeah," Elizabeth said, her voice knowing. "Better do it fast, too."
           Brenna made a face at her, absently fingering the collar and its tags. No actual license; that didn't surprise her. An ID tag was what got a dog home again, and a license cost money to replace. Sunny didn't carry her license either, just the rabies and ID tags. She looked again at the rabies tag, still not quite sure what wasn't right about it, and the Lakeridge clinic name caught her eye. If the clinic kept track of which dog had what vaccine serial number, then...
           The Cardigan—Ch. Nuadha's Silver Druid with no silver—decided she wasn't going to fuss with him anymore and eased his bottom down on the table. She kept an eye on him as she called the clinic, picking the number out from the emergency list by the phone. "Hi," she said when Donna the receptionist picked up the phone and identified herself. "Listen, I've got a stray here with one of your rabies tags. Can you identify the owner from the number?"
           "If the tag isn't outdated. What's the number?"
           Brenna gave Elizabeth a thumbs-up as the other groomer looked up from her work to eavesdrop, and held the tag so the engraving showed clearly in the light, reading off a five-digit number and waiting expectantly for the sound of Donna's fingers at the keyboard.
           But Donna said, "You're missing one. There should be six numbers."
           Brenna frowned. "Only five. They're all very clear; the tag looks practically new." Now that it's been cleaned. "And it's a young dog; he's probably on his first three-year shot." He was, she thought, at least that old—past the first six months when they didn't give rabies, and then the year after the first rabies, which was only a one-year shot. But she wouldn't put him at much beyond a couple of years. His teeth were still white and strong, and his carriage that of a young dog. All the same, he was a well-developed adult, with masculine features and all his parts intact.
           A show dog loaded with identification, and none of it could lead her to his owner.
           Donna said, "I suppose you could bring the tag in; maybe one of the vet techs could make some sense of it. Unless you've got six numbers, I can't be of much help."
           Brenna sighed. "Maybe I will," she said, but knew she wouldn't. If the tag was defective, there was no point. What was she going to do, ask them to search record by record? Or—"Can you search your clients by breed?" she asked. "This is a Cardigan Welsh Corgi. You can't have many of those."
           "We don't have any," Donna said. "We haven't, for several years. And we haven't done that kind of search before, but it might be possible. Tell you what—leave your name and number, and let me get back to you. I'm going to have to sneak this into my schedule. And