“Andy, can I talk to you in my office?”

Taken out of context, that question may not sound like a big deal. In context, spoken by Dr. Dan Dowling, it is the most frightening question I have ever heard.

Dowling is my veterinarian, and I am here today because Tara, my wonderful, extraordinary, remarkable golden retriever and closest of friends, has a lump on her side. He had said that it was very likely nothing to worry about, though of course I was and am plenty worried. So I’ve brought Tara here, and she has been in the back getting an aspirate done on the offending lump.

But now he wants to talk to me, and the request was spoken in a very serious tone. And why in his office? I’ve never been in his office; I didn’t even know he had a goddamn office.

I make a decision as I follow him back there. If he says anything negative about Tara’s health, I am going to strangle him right there in the office I didn’t know he had, and then feed pieces of his body to the fish in the aquarium he has in the waiting area.

And that still wouldn’t make us even.

I follow him into the office and see that there is another dog in there, on a leash attached to a drawer handle on his desk. What the hell is going on? Is this a therapy dog designed to ease my pain at what I am going to hear?

The dog is a French bulldog and seems a bit agitated. He can’t be more than twenty-five pounds; if Dr. Dowling thinks this dog will protect him from me, he is sorely mistaken.

“I have a bit of a situation here,” Dowling says. “And I thought you might be able to help.”

He wants my help? What the hell is he talking about?

“What the hell are you talking about? Is Tara okay?”

“What? Oh, she’s fine. But—”

“But what? She’s fine but she’s not fine?” There is a definite possibility that my head is going to explode.

“Andy, she’s really fine. It was a lipoma, just fatty tissue. No need to remove it; no need to do anything. I promise you, she’s fine.”

I feel the tension come out of me in a rush, like when you let the air out of a balloon you’ve just blown up, before tying it shut. I’m expecting my body to be like the balloon and fly wildly around the room. “You scared me half to death,” I say.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to. I wanted to talk to you about this dog. His name is Truman.”

I’m guessing that he wants me to find Truman a home, for whatever reason. When I’m not working as a defense attorney, my friend Willie Miller and I run the Tara Foundation, a rescue group named after the dog who only has a lipoma and is fine … really fine.

“What about him?” I ask.

“It’s sort of a long story. Yesterday morning a guy brought him in and spoke to Debra, our new receptionist. She said he was maybe mid-forties, a big guy, somewhat intimidating. He said the dog’s name was Buster and that he wanted Buster euthanized, but wouldn’t say why.”

“I thought his name was Truman?”

“I’m getting there,” Dowling says. “The guy signed a form authorizing the euthanasia and paid in cash. In those situations, Debra is supposed to find out why the owner wants it done, but as I said, he was somewhat intimidating, and she’s new, so…”

“Is Buster or Truman healthy?” I ask.

“Yes. I ran bloodwork and did a full examination. He’s perfectly healthy, actually well cared for.”

“So give him to us; we’ll easily find him a good home, better than he had with that asshole.”

“It’s more complicated than that. Once the client signs the form and pays, and we accept the money, we have a legal obligation to euthanize the dog.”

“So you’re asking me as a lawyer what to do? Okay, here’s my considered legal advice: don’t kill the dog; give him to us. You can’t kill an innocent, healthy dog. I won’t tell anyone, and I promise I’ll defend you all the way until they strap you into the electric chair.”

He doesn’t smile. “I haven’t gotten to the complicated part yet,” he says. “I tried to get in touch with the man, to get permission to re-home the dog. I knew you could do that easily. The thing is, as best I can tell, he gave a fake name and address.”

“Good. That makes it even easier. Where is the document he signed?”

“In my safe.”

“Would the guy have a copy?” I ask.

“No, we just have the client sign for our own protection, so they can’t say later on that they never authorized it. As long as we have the original, we’re protected. But I still haven’t gotten to the complicated part.”

I’ve now decided that I’m just going to sit, relax, and wait to hear the complications, rather than interrupt. There’s no urgency and no stress; no matter how this conversation ends, Tara is still going to be fine, really fine.

“Truman has a chip in him,” he says. “I scanned it, which is how I know his name is really Truman. It also listed a name, address, and phone number for the owner, which is not the name and address the man who dropped him off wrote down.”

“So the dog is stolen?” I ask.

“I can’t answer that. I tried calling the phone number the chip gave me, which is an Ohio number, but there was no answer.”

“Did you leave a message?”

“I did, but that doesn’t matter. He’s not going to call back.”

“How do you know that?”

“He was murdered Wednesday night. Right here in New Jersey.”