Because it was cold out there, even in his winter coat. Because no fence could keep him in or out, not even the unseen electric kind. Because he was a born digger, born scavenger. Garbage cans, dumpsters, trash piles on the curb: name it, he’d rooted through them all. He had a nose for the hidden, the rotten, could decode the most tangled scents. Who knew better the blind alleys and desolate underpasses on the east side? That’s where he met his contacts, creatures who kept to the shadows, spilled the street’s dirty secrets for a mere bone or lick. They’d whimper about the Catcher, the one who made all free agents vanish, come to unknown ends not likely good. So what? He’d had plenty of close calls out back of the Chinese joint, in the very kitchen of the Russian tea room. No place was too hot for him. Lately, though, old wounds had woken, slowed him down a step. And one step was all it took to turn yipping victory to howling defeat. He wasn’t even sure his people would claim him if he did get nabbed. All the prior scrapes made him teeter between asset and liability. What’s more, despite the ID and tracker embedded beneath his skin, he could easily be taken for a rogue mutt and dispatched in short order. So that’s it. He’s come in. For excitement now he’ll have to settle for swigging blue water and tailing the package guys.