Chapter Text
I had been working at Paws & Obedience Canine Training Center for three years. Three long years. I had trained hundreds of dogs. Some were stubborn. Some were hyperactive. Some had the IQ of a doorstop.
For example: Zachary, a very goofy but insanely athletic border collie. Jake, a massive, always-hungry St. Bernard. Kyle, a goldendoodle with zero impulse control. And Brody, a Great Dane who insisted on tormenting one of our other trainers, Theo.
None of them compared to Maxwell. Maxwell was my own personal assignment and I was almost ready to call his owner and demand she pick him up. But I had built a reputation as the best trainer at the facility, specializing in training the untrainable. And I couldn't afford a bad review from a senator's wife.
So I accepted the challenge that was Maxwell. Maxwell, the ridiculously jacked golden retriever with far too much energy, no concept of personal space, and an insatiable need for attention. He had failed every single training class. Yet his owner (some senator’s wife, apparently) insisted he was just “enthusiastic.”
Despite weeks of training, the oaf was currently standing on his hind legs with his massive paws braced on my shoulders, his tongue hanging out as he panted excitedly.
“Maxwell. Down," I snapped, struggling to shove him off. At first, he didn't budge, but then he let out a whine and reluctantly dropped back onto all fours, his tail wagging like a helicopter blade.
He whimpered, his big brown eyes shamelessly pleading.
I let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. I had never once believed in reincarnation before this job, but I was now convinced that in another life, Maxwell had been an absolute menace of a human being.
“Maxwell,” I said slowly, calmly. “What are the rules?”
I watched his ears pin back, another whine escaping his broad chest. Unnecessarily dramatic. If I'd learned anything in the past three weeks that Maxwell had been under my care, it was that he hated rules.
“No jumping," I reminded him sternly. He barked and I quickly shushed him. "No barking in the gym."
Maxwell squirmed in place, glancing toward the row of agility equipment like he was seconds away from sprinting off. I stepped in front of him, commanding his attention.
When his eyes were fixed back on me, I prompted. "And what else, Maxwell?"
If dogs could pout, I would've sworn he was. He knew what I was about to say. After all, the incident from this morning was still fresh in both our minds—and undoubtedly Zachary's, the border collie who he'd become good friends with since joining the training program. Too good friends.
“No humping," I stated, then repeated myself for good measure. "No humping the other dogs, Maxwell."
He chuffed at me and whined piteously, stretching his neck forwards to lick at my hands. The hangdog look was so literal I could've laughed. Except I didn't. I pulled away, out of his reach, crossing my arms over my chest. I refused to be appeased.
“Those are the rules and you're here to follow them. Now sit.”
Maxwell sat. Immediately.
I exhaled sharply. For all his chaos, Maxwell was actually the best at following commands—when I gave them.
Which was the problem.
Because now Maxwell refused to listen to anyone else.
The other trainers? Ignored. The actual owner? Ignored. The head trainer? Ignored.
Maxwell only listened to me.
And I knew it was a problem.
Because every time I turned around, if he wasn't involved in some sort of unruly shenanigans, Maxwell was right there, pressing against my legs, trying to lick me, whining when I wasn't giving him attention. He was scenting me, for God's sake.
I knew the science behind it, of course. Similar to how certain dogs bonded more strongly, with male or female owners, certain dogs favored omegas. It was one of the reasons why omega trainers had carved out big reputations in the dog training industry.
But the worst part? I was starting to let him.
When Maxwell's owner came to pick him up two weeks later, I'll admit—I was on pins and needles.
But to my surprise, we demonstrated the training we'd done without incident. Maxwell listened perfectly to my commands and I was both impressed and relieved. Except then it came time for him to leave the training facility.
And he refused. Blatanty.
He wouldn't even look at his owner. Instead he planted himself at my feet and stared up at me like I had personally hung the moon.
I expected his owner to make the standard joke about how he must've had so much fun he didn't want to leave and coax him into her Range Rover with a homemade treat.
I did not expect for her to clap her hands together.
“Oh, honey,” she said. “He’s bonded with you.”
I stared at her, horrified. “I’m sorry—he’s what?”
She beamed. “You’re his person now!”
My eye twitched. No. Absolutely not.
Maxwell’s tail thumped violently against the floor.
And that was the moment I knew.
I was never getting rid of this dog.