No dog.
He looked back at the woman.
“Were you bitten?”
“No.”
“Scratched?”
“No.”
“It charged me.”
“Where?”
“Right here.”
She pointed toward the strip of sidewalk beside the driveway.
The officer looked.
“When?”
“This morning.”
“What time?”
“A little after eight.”
The homeowner’s expression did not change.
The officer looked toward him.
“Sir, you live here?”
“Yes.”
“Dog inside?”
“No.”
The HOA president gave a triumphant laugh.
“See?”
The officer turned back.
“I haven’t asked you anything yet.”
Her smile disappeared.
He looked at the homeowner again.
“Where’s the dog?”
“At the veterinary hospital.”
The HOA president stared at him.
The officer asked:
“Since when?”
“Seven this morning.”
The woman’s mouth opened.
The homeowner continued.
“He had a scheduled diagnostic procedure.”
The officer looked toward the HOA president.
Then back.
“Do you have anything showing that?”
“Yes.”
The homeowner slowly raised his mechanical right hand.
The articulated fingers opened with controlled precision.
He retrieved his phone from his pocket using his left prosthetic hand, tapped the screen, and brought up a veterinary check-in record.
He held it toward the officer.
The screen showed a photograph of a large service dog sitting beside a veterinary technician.
A check-in confirmation appeared above it.
The officer studied the record.
Then asked:
“What time?”
The homeowner answered:
“6:47 a.m.”
The HOA president spoke quickly.
“That could be from another day.”
The officer looked at the date.
“It’s today.”
She folded her arms.
“Then he could have brought the dog home afterward.”
The homeowner shook his head.
“He’s still there.”
The officer looked toward him.
“Can that be confirmed?”
The homeowner nodded.
“Call them.”
The HOA president’s voice rose.
“This is ridiculous.”
The officer turned slowly.
“You made the complaint.”
She stopped.
He continued:
“If you say an animal attacked you this morning, I need to establish whether that animal was physically capable of being here.”
“It was his dog.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw it.”
“What kind?”
She hesitated.
The homeowner noticed.
The officer noticed too.
The woman pointed toward the house.
“The big one.”
The officer waited.
She became irritated.
“Large.”
“Color?”
She looked toward the homeowner.
Then toward the porch.
An empty service-dog harness hung from a hook near the front door.
The harness was dark.
No animal visible.
“Brown.”
The homeowner’s eyebrows lifted.
The officer looked toward him.
“What color is your dog?”
“Black.”
Silence.
The HOA president recovered quickly.
“Black-brown.”
The homeowner looked down once.
Almost a smile.
The officer asked:
“Breed?”
She snapped:
“I’m not a veterinarian.”
“You don’t need to be.”
“It was large.”
“Anything distinctive?”
“It had a service vest.”
The homeowner looked toward the officer.