[The idea of training service dogs had first formed, oddly enough, when Eames had been finishing his last legs of military service. He'd talked to so many of his unit mates who were dreading coming home after long stints of being away, of having to adjust back into normalcy. One of them he had been particularly worried about, a guy who took everything to heart and tended to have intense nightmares that no one in the squad would really address.
When Eames had swung by to check up on him, he'd been surprised to see how well-adjusted he was. In his absence, his family had adopted a tiny labrador retriever, and the rest was history.
It was surprisingly easy to start training a service dog, and even easier to get hooked on the feeling of matching a dog to someone who needed them. While Eames' agency was small, it was growing, and he had reluctantly hired a few people to help him find and train service dogs. Ariadne's dogs were always the happiest and Arthur's were the best at taking orders, but Eames liked to think his dogs were a proper balance.
Because the agency was fairly new, he preferred working solely with organizations who would direct people to him, having done all the vetting already. He also preferred word of mouth than advertising, and the small neat website that was set up didn't even list an address or a phone number. Ariadne would say it was because he was too much of a mother hen to give away his 'babies' to just anyone, and she might be right.
Still, even he had to admit that all of the appointments this morning sounded like good candidates for one of his dogs. Depression, blind and PTSD, amputees...]
Good morning. [Eames called as he popped out from his office, before pausing, frowning to glance at his watch.] Or afternoon? Close enough to either. You must be Mr. Rammsteiner.
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When Eames had swung by to check up on him, he'd been surprised to see how well-adjusted he was. In his absence, his family had adopted a tiny labrador retriever, and the rest was history.
It was surprisingly easy to start training a service dog, and even easier to get hooked on the feeling of matching a dog to someone who needed them. While Eames' agency was small, it was growing, and he had reluctantly hired a few people to help him find and train service dogs. Ariadne's dogs were always the happiest and Arthur's were the best at taking orders, but Eames liked to think his dogs were a proper balance.
Because the agency was fairly new, he preferred working solely with organizations who would direct people to him, having done all the vetting already. He also preferred word of mouth than advertising, and the small neat website that was set up didn't even list an address or a phone number. Ariadne would say it was because he was too much of a mother hen to give away his 'babies' to just anyone, and she might be right.
Still, even he had to admit that all of the appointments this morning sounded like good candidates for one of his dogs. Depression, blind and PTSD, amputees...]
Good morning. [Eames called as he popped out from his office, before pausing, frowning to glance at his watch.] Or afternoon? Close enough to either. You must be Mr. Rammsteiner.