To Catch a Treat by Linda O. Johnston Page A

him was far from smug. It was more wry than anything. I aimed it next toward Billi, who now stood beside us, also watching the emotional reunion. “Do you know how this dog got here?” I asked her. “Did he come from another shelter, or—”
    â€œOne of my staff said he was wandering in the alley behind the shelter just this morning. They brought him in and checked for an ID tag or microchip to try to reunite him with his owner. Apparently he was chipped, but our scanner couldn’t capture the information. Then, as a matter of course, we had the dog checked out at your vet clinic before taking him in here. He got a clean bill of health, but their scanner couldn’t grab the data, either.”
    I’d never heard of that happening before, but it suggested there was something wrong with the chip, not the two scanners.
    â€œSo there’s no official way of confirming this is Janelle’s Go?” I asked. What if this was all an act on Janelle’s part?
    Although I didn’t know why she would do such a thing, or how she could have gotten the dog to mirror her excitement. She didn’t appear to have any treats, and it sure looked to me as if the Lab was as thrilled to see her as she was to see him.
    â€œNot really,” Billi said, “although I’d suggest you look at the records at your clinic. Maybe there’s something about scars, or other things we could ask Janelle about that would be unique to her dog.”
    â€œI’ll do that,” I said.
    We all headed toward the reception area. Billi gave Janelle a leash to borrow. Clearly, Billi was going to allow Janelle to take this dog with her, whether or not he was actually Go.
    But their mutual reactions were convincing me, more and more, that this was really Janelle’s missing dog.
    Since the receptionist had left for the day, Billi extracted the usual adoption paperwork from the office files. I didn’t pay a lot of attention, since Biscuit dashed over to me, then headed in the direction of the other dog in the room to greet him, too. The dog who was probably Go had seemed just fine with the other Lab in their kennel, but I wanted to keep a close eye on him with my smaller, more energetic pup.
    I clipped Biscuit’s leash on her but let her stay close, at least for now, to the dog who was apparently Janelle’s. Fortunately, after trading nose and butt sniffs, they both settled down. Go did not appear inclined to attack Biscuit, and of course my little girl wasn’t about to hurt anyone either.
    As we stood there, a few straggler daytime staff members entered the room to log out, and Billi told them that the Lab was leaving for a new home already that evening, which wouldn’t have been permitted so quickly under other circumstances in case the dog’s owner showed up. Since Janelle was apparently that owner, it worked this time. Everyone seemed delighted.
    Billi then handed the paperwork to Janelle, along with a pen, and gestured toward a table and chair near the door. “I’d like you to fill this out. I understand that this appears to be your dog—we named him Boomer, by the way, but we always say adopters can change the pets’ names, and this time it’s clear what he responds to. In any event, since we started our own file on him, it’ll be cleaner just to act as if he’s another adoption. If it turns out you’re mistaken and the real owner shows up, though, you’ll be agreeing here to bring Go back.”
    â€œHe’s definitely my dog,” Janelle said, “but I’ll sign this so I can take him now.”
    That also meant Billi would collect information such as Janelle’s home address and phone number. That might be handy to have.
    Of course, if Janelle was just making things up for some unfathomable reason, she’d fake her data like everything else. I couldn’t figure out why she’d be doing that, though. And Neal still