"Hey, that's a good boy," John says, his voice still low, and he lets the dog sniff his fingers, taking the wagging tail as a good sign to rub his hands over his head gently. His fingers slide down toward the dog's throat, looking for a collar, but he finds nothing, so he returns his hand to where it was before, giving the dog a gently ear rub, still moving slowly and taking care not to frighten him in any way. "Good dog."

No collar, which doesn't necessarily mean no owner, so John gently holds on ear in his hand and then the other, flipping them out to look for a tattoo. There isn't any, but there might be a microchip and the only way to find that is to take the dog to the city, to animal control. Which is a place John does his best to avoid. It's doubtful Samaritan has bothered having eyes in animal control, but he can't be certain about anything.

"No collar, huh?" he asks. "So what do we do with you now?"