Dog Days (2 page)

I looked at my shirt, frowning, then turned back to the dog. I worked more of the crusty substance on her fur between my fingers. I looked at Rick worriedly. “That’s not mud,” I said. “It’s blood.”

CHAPTER TWO

R
ick said, “She didn’t look hurt when I found her. I guess she might’ve killed something, but ...” He gave a small shake of his head. “It would’ve had to be a mighty big animal to bleed that much. Deer, maybe?”

Sonny started toward us. “Raine? Do you need help?”

I replied over my shoulder, “No thanks, Sonny. Better not bring the dogs any closer, though. We don’t want any incidents.”

Sonny promised to call me later, and put the dogs in her car. As she drove away, I turned back to the golden, stroking her ears. “I never heard of a golden bringing down a deer,” I said to Rick. “Have you?”

He admitted it didn’t seem likely.

“She might have some injury we can’t see,” I said. “I’ll have the vet check her out. I can’t put her in with the other dogs until she has her shots anyway. Meantime, if anybody calls about her, tell them I’ve got her. I’ll stop by the sheriff’s office and let them know, and put an announcement on the radio.”

“Thanks, Raine.” He glanced around. “Looks like you’re staying busy.”

I knew he felt bad about having to let me go, but it wasn’t his fault the government cut his budget, so I tried not to rub it in. “Business couldn’t be better,” I assured him. “You know how it is this time of year.”

“Boy, do I ever.” He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his sweaty, plastered-down hair. “I sure could use you back on the team, but the way things are …” Again he looked embarrassed and regretful.

“I know,” I said. “But it probably worked out for the best. I can hardly keep up with all I’ve got going on here.” As I spoke I kept a reassuring hand on the golden’s collar, rubbing her jaw with the other. She relaxed, stretching out her paws on the front seat.

“Looks like it. Well, I gotta get back. I’ll let you know if I hear anything on the dog.”

“Same here. Be sure to tell everybody hey for me, okay?”

“Will do.”

He started around to the driver’s side of the truck and I gave a gentle tug on the leash. “Come on, sweetie, let’s go.” To my relief, the dog jumped out of the truck without any further urging. Sometimes these things can be a struggle.

I turned to lead her away as Rick made the three-point turn to leave, and that was when I noticed that Cisco had not only broken his down-stay, but was standing with his paws on the fence, grinning like a fool at the new dog. “Cisco!” I said sternly, careful not to sound so threatening that I would spook the new dog. “Shame on you! Where do you belong?”

Cisco is a smart dog and, I like to think, very well trained. After all, he is a Canine Good Citizen, a registered therapy dog, certified in Level Two Wilderness Search and Rescue, and holds titles in both Novice and Open agility. Of course, he’s never won an obedience title, possibly because, while he knows all the commands, he tends to use his own judgment when deciding whether or not to execute them. But my “Shame on you!” voice almost always works with him, and the only reason I could think of that he wasn’t responding to it now was because I hadn’t been tough enough.

I rested a soothing hand on the golden’s head and murmured, “Sorry, sweetheart.” Then, in my not-to-be-ignored voice, I shouted, “Cisco,
down
!”

To my surprise, the golden beside me immediately dropped to a down. I murmured, “Oh my!” and quickly dug into my pocket for a treat. The golden licked it up while I praised her for the good dog she was, and Cisco barked, wagging his tail frantically, his paws clawing at the fence.

I stared at Cisco sternly, and the sweet golden at my side did not move. After a moment Cisco reluctantly stretched into a down, his tail still swishing on the concrete walkway, his grin broad enough to melt the coldest heart. I actually had to compress my lips to keep from smiling back as I reached into a pocket for a treat. “Okay, you rascal.”

I approached the fence to toss him his treat, the new dog walking politely at my side. But we hadn’t gone three feet before Cisco bounded up again, paws on the fence, yipping like a puppy with excitement. Having worked with dogs most of my life, I know that they not only recognize, but often prefer, members of their own breed, so of course Cisco was happy to see another golden. But dozens of goldens come through here every year and he should definitely be used to it by now. As far as I was concerned, this behavior was inexcusable. I spun on my heel and walked the other way.

Shunning, in dog language, is a fairly effective treatment for a deliberately disobedient dog. The next time your dog is flinging himself at you uncontrollably when you come home, try turning your back on him, crossing your arms, and refusing to make eye contact. It won’t take long before he figures out he has done something wrong. And of course a tried and true method for getting the attention of a dog who refuses to come when you call is to simply walk away. If there’s a gate you can shut between you and him, or a car you can get in that he can’t, so much the better. You’d be amazed at how much bad-dog bravado goes out of a dog when he’s ignored and left behind.

Sad to say, Cisco has been the recipient of this kind of disapproval more than once, and he responded immediately by remembering what he’d done wrong and sinking reluctantly into the down-stay once again. This did not surprise me, although I’ll admit a certain sense of gratification. What did surprise me was that the golden kept perfect pace with my fierce, determined stride. Someone had definitely put some time into training this dog.

I crossed the driveway that separated Dog Daze from my house and put the golden in the chain-link run I designated for rescues. As much as I would have liked to bathe and spiff her up myself, my rule is hard-and-fast: no rescues come into contact with other dogs until they’ve been vetted. We’d had a bad outbreak of parvo this summer, and leptospirosis was making a comeback in the mountains, not to mention canine flu. With a full kennel, there was no way I was taking a chance.

I called the vet on my way to release Cisco from his down-stay, and his receptionist—also his wife—said that if I could get the golden in within the hour, they could see her right away. The minute I hung up, Melanie called. The child was calling from Brazil. Of course I took the call.

“Hey, Mel,” I answered happily. “What’s up?” I opened the gate and gave Cisco a treat for maintaining his stay until I returned. Then, and only then, did I give him the hand signal for “release.” He bounded to his feet and began to sniff my legs, my shoes, anywhere the other dog had touched.

“Hey, Raine!” she replied. “How’s Pepper?”

“Perfect,” I assured her. I snapped my fingers and Cisco fell into heel position beside me as we walked back to the kennel building. Too bad he couldn’t demonstrate that level of obedience when it counted. “She was the demo dog in puppy class yesterday, and all the other dogs were so jealous. Afterward we all went out for doggie fro-yo. Pepper paid, of course.”

Melanie giggled. “Hope she didn’t forget the tip.”

“No chance.” I opened the door to the building and gestured Cisco inside. I remained outside, where I could actually have a telephone conversation without the deafening cacophony of barking. “What about you? Are you having fun?”

“Oh, sure,” she replied, somewhat distractedly. “Lots of culturally significant stuff. Museums, galleries, you know. Say, Raine.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially, and even over the thousands of miles that separated us, I could hear the undertone of excitement. “There’s news.”

“Yeah? Can’t wait.”

“Well.” She took an important breath, then blurted, “My mom is getting a divorce from her new husband. That means she doesn’t have to live in Brazil anymore! That means she can live in the States and I can see her any time I want! Maybe she’ll even move to North Carolina!”

I felt as though I’d been sucker-punched. Miles’s ex-wife, the mother of his child, had been a shadowy background figure for as long as I’d known Miles. Out of country, out of mind. Married to someone else. A non-entity. And now, suddenly, she wasn’t. She was real, she was sexy, she was free. And she could be moving next door.

It was a moment or two before I could actually find my breath. “Wow, Melanie,” I managed. “That’s huge.”

“I know, right?” Her voice was practically bubbling with excitement. “Now Pepper and I don’t have to worry about learning Spanish or moving or anything. Oh!” she added, on a breath. “And Mom says I can have my ears pierced! Can’t wait for you to see. I’m going to get dog bone earrings like yours.” She paused thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll get my belly button pierced while I’m at it.”

Despite my distraction, I almost choked on a laugh. “I double-dog dare you to tell your dad that.”

“Well,” she admitted, “it did take a pretty long time to get him onboard with the ears. Maybe I won’t tell him.”

“Maybe you won’t do it.”

I could almost see her grin. “Probably not. Anyway, gotta go. I just wanted to tell you.”

“Glad you did.” I forced heartiness I was far from feeling. “Hey, Melanie, do me a favor, will you? Tell your dad to call me when he gets a chance.”

“Okay, I will. And give Pepper a big hug, okay? Tell her I’ll be home soon.”

“Sure thing. She’s sending you big doggie kisses.”

She giggled again. “Bye, Raine.”

After she disconnected, I took three deep breaths, and then, because I was afraid I’d lose my nerve if I waited any longer, I dialed Miles’s number. It went straight to voice mail, which meant that either his phone was off—unlikely, if I knew Miles—or he’d rejected my call. I fought the impulse to hang up, waited for the tone, then said, as casually as I possibly could, “Hey, it’s me. Just wondering how things are going. Call me, okay?” I hesitated, thought about adding more, and changed my mind. I finished lamely, “Bye.” And hung up, wincing in embarrassment at my own ineptitude.

But I didn’t have time to stand there feeling stupid. I released the two Aussies and ushered them, along with Cisco, out into the play yard. Then I stopped by the day care room and told Katie and Marilee I’d be out for a couple of hours. “Just let the phone go to voice mail,” I said. “But watch the front door. Mrs. Kellerman is dropping Peaches by for her bath at 1:00. If I’m not back by then, just put her in the kennel in the grooming room. My dogs are in the play yard. You can take this crew …” I indicated the collie mix, the poodle, the two Labs, and the beagle who were milling around my feet and shoving in for petting, “out to run for a while but bring them all in after fifteen minutes. I don’t want them to get too hot. And dry them off before you bring them back in.” I kept wading pools scattered around the play yard this time of year, and few dogs could resist plopping down in one at least once during their run.

“Yes, ma’am,” they chorused, gathering up leashes and squeaky toys.

Again I winced. No woman in her thirties likes being called ma’am. But my mother would’ve skinned me alive if I’d called an employer anything else besides “ma’am” or “sir” when I was their age, so I supposed I should be grateful for the respect.

“I’ve got my cell phone,” I reminded them. “Call me if you need anything at all.”

They assured me, once again with a chorus of “ma’ams,” that they would as I hurried back to the house.

I stripped off my dirty clothes, showered off the dog hair, and stepped into a clean pair of white shorts and a print blouse three minutes later. I ran my fingers through my short, curly hair, knowing it would probably dry before I reached the car, grabbed my purse and a leash, and was on my way.

~*~

My relationship with Doc Witherspoon goes back fifteen years, at least, to the time I got my first golden retriever. I’d carried sick or injured dogs into his office at three a.m. and he’d been as calm and professional as he was on a well-puppy check-up at three in the afternoon. He always gave me a break on rescue dogs, charging me only anesthesia costs for spay/neuters and giving the shots for free. If you ever consider going into rescue work, it’s essential to find a vet like that.

“Looks to be about four years old,” he pronounced after his initial examination. “Spayed, clean ears and teeth. Good weight, nice coat. Looks like somebody took care of this dog.”

“I think so too,” I said. “She’s very well behaved. She might even have some formal obedience training. She reminds me a lot of Hero, actually.”

Hero, Sonny’s service dog, had started out as a rescue much like this golden—except that we knew who his owner, unfortunately deceased, had been. He had continually amazed me with his skills until we tracked him back to the service dog organization that had trained him. Sometimes, in this business, you really do find gold.

Doc said, “Well, let’s see if she has a microchip.” As he turned to get the scanner, I draped an arm around the golden, holding her still on the metal table, stroking her filthy fur. She panted a little, but seemed otherwise unperturbed.

“What about the blood on her fur?”

“I don’t see anything, but I’ll take a closer look after we get her cleaned up. Could be a closed wound and we don’t want it to abscess.” He ran the scanner across her shoulder and it beeped. “There you go.” He showed the screen to me. “She’s chipped. I’ll get Crystal to run it down for you. We might even be able to get in touch with her vet. If we can’t, do you want me to go ahead and give her the full spectrum?”