“This must be humiliating,” Gus said.
The Basset Hound was right. It was. I should be on the streets fighting crime. It’s what I was trained to do.
Instead, here I am unarmed and waiting on a dog. A talking, hyperintelligent, anthropomorphic dog.
“Well, you’re the one that botched the assignment,” Gus reminded me.
Again, the police dog nailed it. I screwed up. And it was bad, but not career-ending bad.
“Hey, left a gift for you out back,” Gus chided.
I wasn’t sure if this mutt knew how to smile, but it sure as hell looked like he could.
The Weekday One Hundred 