The puppy arrived in a cardboard box on a Thursday afternoon in April.

Years later, Henry Cole would still remember that box.

The worn towels inside it.

The oversized paws.

The ears that seemed far too big for such a small head.

And the way the little black-and-tan German Shepherd looked up at him and Lorraine with solemn brown eyes, as if he were studying them before deciding whether they were worthy.

“Oh, Henry,” Lorraine whispered, lifting him from the box. “Look at him. He looks like a tiny bear.”

The puppy licked her chin.

“Bear,” she said immediately. “That’s his name.”

Henry smiled.

“You know we’re not supposed to name them. The county will give him an official name once he reaches the academy.”

“I know.”

Lorraine held the puppy closer.

“But until then, he belongs with us. And while he’s here, he’s Bear.”

Henry and Lorraine had been volunteer puppy raisers for the Monroe County Sheriff’s K9 program for more than twenty years.

It began almost by accident.

A neighbor who worked as a deputy told them the department needed families willing to raise German Shepherd puppies from eight weeks old until they were old enough for formal police training.

The families would socialize them.

Teach them confidence.

Take them into stores, parks, crowds, sporting events.

Expose them to noise.

Strangers.

Cars.

Children.

Everything.

Then, around fourteen months old, they had to give them back.

“That last part is what most people can’t handle,” the deputy warned them.

“They fall in love.”

Lorraine had looked at Henry.

“We can do it.”

They had no children.

They had tried for years.

Eventually, they stopped trying.

Their house on Sycamore Drive had three bedrooms, and two of them had always felt painfully empty.

So Henry agreed.

Over twenty-two years, they raised fourteen police dogs.

Every one of them graduated.

Every one went on to work somewhere.

Some with Monroe County.

Some farther away.

One became an airport detection dog in Philadelphia.

Lorraine kept scrapbooks for all of them.

Puppy photos.

Newspaper clippings.

Christmas cards from handlers.

And every time the day came to return one of them to the academy, Lorraine cried all the way home.

“I always think it’ll hurt less,” she once told Henry.

“Does it?”

“No.”

She wiped her eyes.

“But it’s still worth doing.”

Bear was puppy number fifteen.

And almost immediately, Lorraine said he was different.

He was unusually calm.

Unusually observant.

He rarely barked without a reason.

He followed her everywhere.

When she knitted in the evening, he lay across her feet.

When she worked in the garden, he sat beside the roses like a tiny guard.

Henry used to watch them from the porch.

Lorraine in her sun hat.

Bear sitting perfectly still beside the flower bed.

Those evenings became some of his favorite memories.

Then, when Bear was eleven months old, Lorraine found a lump.

The illness moved quickly.

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