The Dead Season (3 page)

I said, “Well, it’s really a fairly complex procedure. The evaluator has to find a facility that can simulate a medical environment, and she has to put together a team of volunteers to help with the test—”

“Medical environment? Oh, no, I don’t need anything like that! I just need someone to certify my dog for therapeutic work so he can go on the wilderness retreat with me. You see, I’m a counselor with the New Day Wilderness Program, and we’re allowed to take our dogs with us into the wilderness if they’re certified. Something about insurance.”

It was all starting to sound familiar to me now. I sat up a little straighter in my chair, raising a warning “stay” finger to both Cisco and Magic, who looked as though they were ready to claim they thought I had changed my mind about asking them to be still. Mischief yawned, stretched, and sank back down into a sphinx in the middle of the floor, pretending disinterest.

I said, “Well, there’s really only one kind of therapy dog evaluation, and it involves testing the dog to make sure he’s safe around children, old people, medicated people, all kinds of unexpected situations...”

“But we’re not going to be around sick people or old people. We’re going to be in the wilderness.”

“In the middle of the winter?”

“Oh yes, we take groups out every two weeks year round.”

I typed “New Day Wilderness Program” into my search engine.

“And y’all are here in Hanover County?”

“That’s right. Off of Highway 81.”

I scrolled through a few irrelevant listings until I found it. “New Day Wilderness Program, a therapeutic retreat for...” I clicked.

I said, “I might be able to be of more help to you if I knew what it was exactly you needed your dogs to do. Maybe the Canine Good Citizen test is all you need.”

“Do you have to take a class for that?”

“It helps, but it’s not necessary.”

A picture came up on my browser of a peaceful-looking lodge-like retreat set amidst a stand of pines. “
New Day Wilderness Program
” was written above it in serene green script, and below it “Alternative therapies for the troubled teen.”

“Can you give Max the test today?”

“Max?”

“My dog.”

I clicked on a button at random and a montage of photographs came up—the gleaming pine interior of the lodge’s dining hall, something that looked like a dormitory with neatly made bunk beds lining the walls, an outdoor shot of a suspension bridge, a rock wall, a rope swing, youthful faces illuminated by a campfire, the generic waterfalls, rushing streams and rhododendron, none of which told me any more about the place than I already knew.

I said, “It sounds as though the best thing for me to do would be to find out what kind of test your dog really needs. Maybe I should talk to the person in charge?”

She sounded relieved. “Yes, that sounds like a great idea. His name is Paul Evans.” She gave me the number. “Can you call him today? We’re supposed to leave this weekend, and I don’t know what I’m going to do with Max if I can’t take him with me.”

Well, what do you know about that? I just happened to own a boarding kennel.

“Let me see what I can find out,” I told her, “and I’ll get back to you. But don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll be able to work out something for you and Max.”

“Thank you,” she told me sincerely. “Max means a lot to me and I don’t know what I’d do if… well, just thank you.” She gave me her cell phone number and added, “You’ll let me know today, right? We’re allowed to take calls up until nine p.m.”

“Well, well, well,” I said thoughtfully to Cisco when I hung up. “It looks like we might be able to pay the dog food bill around here this month after all.”

Cisco quirked his ears and tilted his head at me in a most endearing fashion, but didn’t dare break his stay. I smiled approvingly at him, counted to five—because it never pays to let your dog think he’s manipulated you—and said, “Okay, release!”

All three dogs bounded over to me for their obligatory ear-scratches and rib-rubs, wiggling with delight at their own magnificence. I laughed and tossed them each a treat from the canister I kept on my desk, just because they were mine and I loved them.

I turned back to the website for the
New Day Wilderness Program
, absently stroking Cisco’s head as I began to look through it more studiously. When you’re a small business owner—especially in the rural Smoky Mountains in the dead of winter with quarterly taxes hanging over your head like the Sword of Damocles—you’re always on the lookout for creative ways to expand your income. (This, by the way, is the explanation for all those storefront signs you see in this part of the country that read, “Live Bait and Nutritional Supplies” and “VCR Repair and Antique Quilts” and, yes, “Attorney at Law/Taxidermist”). It occurred to me that, since two people had now called me from the same place in desperate need of my services, and since, according to the website, there were no less than six counselors on duty at one time and assuming they all had dogs… it wasn’t completely beyond reason to think I might have something to offer the
New Day Wilderness program
that might be a little more lucrative than the $5.00 per dog test fee suggested by the AKC for the Canine Good Citizen test. At the very least, it might be worth meeting with Mr. Paul Evans to find out.

Besides, I was curious. I picked up the telephone and dialed the number of the
New Day Wilderness Program’
s administrative offices.

I had a two o’clock appointment with Paul Evans, executive director, less than three minutes later.

CHAPTER
FOUR

T
he headquarters of the New Day Wilderness Program was exactly as depicted on its website: a clean and modern-looking A-Frame log lodge that was nestled at the base of a mountain and whose tall glass prow looked out over serene woodland. It was three miles off Highway 81, down a wide but unpaved dirt road, and I couldn’t help noticing an occasional glint of chain link fencing from the woods that lined the road on either side. Tall iron gates with the emblem of a rising sun on them were painted an attractive green, and they were open when I arrived. Closed, they would be virtually unscalable. A stand of Leland Cyprus defined the property and served as a disguise for the ten foot tall iron fence that enclosed the compound. All that was missing was the razor wire.

I had a done a little more internet research and had discovered that the New Day Wilderness Program was a therapeutic camp for troubled teens that promised parents a four-to-six-week treatment regimen that would address behavioral issues such as defiance, belligerence, moodiness, rebelliousness, lack of interest in school, secretiveness and substance abuse. Since I did not know a teenager who had not at one time or another exhibited one of those symptoms, I figured New Day must do a pretty good business. I couldn’t help but notice they did not exactly promise a cure for the behaviors—at least not on their website. On there, they mainly urged anxious parents to “Call Now” and “Don’t Let Another Day Go By.” Of course, what I found most interesting was that they mentioned “animal therapy” as one of their tools, and even showed a picture of a young man on horseback and another of a girl hugging a yellow lab in a therapy dog vest. Paul Evans and his wife Rachel were both certified counselors, and they advertised a staff of trained therapists, social workers and wilderness experts, with a one-to-one ratio of staff to students on every wilderness expedition.  It all sounded very impressive—and expensive. And now that I was here, it looked as expensive as it had sounded. I couldn’t help wondering, though, given all the security I had noted as I drove up, whether all that glass on the lodge was bulletproof.

I parked in the small asphalt lot, which was discretely marked with a wooden “Visitors” sign, and walked up to the tinted-glass door. When I tried to open it, it didn’t budge, and then I saw the small brass sign next to a buzzer that said “Please ring for admittance.” I did, and the tinny sound of a man’s voice came from the intercom at my elbow. “May I help you?”

“My name is Raine Stockton,” I said. “I have an appointment with Mr. Evans.”

“Oh yes, Miss Stockton. I’m glad you could make it. Come in and have a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

I heard a lock disengage, and this time when I pushed at the door, it opened.

The interior was spacious and carpeted in soft beige, flooded with soft light from the glass apex of the building. There was a tall stone wall with a gas fire dancing in the fireplace, some leather sofas and chairs, a few end tables with neatly stacked magazines on them. I took a seat on the edge of the sofa in front of the fireplace, and while I waited, I casually glanced through a stamped leather book with the New Day rising sun logo on it. It looked like a yearbook, with big glossy pages headlined with words like “Trial” which showed kids in New Day tee shirts on the rock climbing wall and “Triumph” with photos of more New Day kids standing atop a real mountain in their climbing gear with a magnificent landscape spread out below. On another page there was a picture of a German shepherd in a therapy dog vest, and as I flipped through, I saw bright-faced young people standing beside yellow labs, black labs, golden mixes, shepherd mixes, and terrier mixes. Every good publicist knows the value of a dog picture when it comes to selling, and, so apparently, did the New Day Wilderness P
rogram
. On the very last page was a group picture of last year’s counseling team, and sure enough, right in front was a blond-haired young man, kneeling with his arm around the neck of a goofy-looking black lab with a white star on his chest a crooked right ear. The caption was “At New Day, We Care.”

A man came down the corridor toward me, his hand extended. “Miss Stockton, I presume. I’m Paul Evans. Welcome to New Day.”

He was a wiry man with a grey-tinged beard, slightly thinning brown hair, and unprepossessing steel-rimmed glasses. His smile was broad and his manner welcoming, and I got the impression, when he shook my hand, of strength, competence, and efficiency. He looked like the kind of man you could trust to take your troubled teenager on a wilderness expedition, which was, of course, the point.

“Thank you for seeing me,” I said, glancing around. “Wow, this place is really nice. I never knew it was here.”

He smiled. “There’s a certain need for discretion, as I’m sure you understand. We’ve been here for about three years now. We just don’t advertise. Come on back to my office where we can talk. The kids are in session now, so I have plenty of time.”

“I looked at your website,” I said, “but it didn’t really give a lot of details. How many, um, residents do you have?”

“Right now we have a dozen in residence. We take them out on wilderness expeditions in groups of four to six for two weeks at a time. The rest of their time here is spent in supervised training exercises and intensive therapy to prepare them for their wilderness experience.” As he spoke he led the way down a hallway that resembled the corridor of a swanky ski resort. The interior walls were formed of glossy sealed logs, the architectural ceiling beams were exposed, and the art looked to be real, not prints. “Our goal is teach cooperation, communication and confidence, and we believe the best way to do that is with the greatest teacher of all, nature.”

“Sounds good to me,” I murmured politely. What it sounded like was a sales pitch, but I did like the part about building confidence through communication and cooperation. That wasn’t too different from my approach at Dog Daze.

He opened a door and gestured me to precede him into a nicely appointed office with a spectacular view of the Smoky Mountains through the triangular floor-to-ceiling window on the west wall. The room had its own cozy fireplace, and the credenzas and wooden filing cabinets had handles made of polished antler. On the wall behind the desk was a six-foot-tall painting of a stag on a mountaintop framed in intricately carved bark. There were two tapestry-covered wing chairs in front of the desk; the print on one was of golden retrievers in a duck blind, and on the other were black Labs in a wheat field. I had admired both chairs in a very pricey furniture shop in Asheville, but couldn’t afford them.

I chose the golden retriever chair and Paul Evans sat behind the desk, his smile inviting me to state my business. So I did.

“I noticed on your website that you use therapy dogs as part of your program,” I said.

“Occasionally. It’s all part of the nature experience.”

“Well, as I told you on the phone, I’m a dog trainer and a CGC evaluator, and I’ve had a couple of calls from your counselors asking to me certify their dogs as either therapy dogs or Canine Good Citizens. As I’m sure you can appreciate, that’s not something I can do on twenty-four hours’ notice…”

He raised a staying finger, his expression rueful. “Absolutely. I apologize if you’ve been bothered by the calls. Let me explain. Most of our field counselors are young people here on internships that last three to six months, and one of the most attractive things about our program is that we do allow pets in the staff dorms. However, we can only allow dogs to interact with the students if they are part of a certified therapy dog team, or at the very least have a Canine Good Citizen Certificate. Unfortunately, most of the kids don’t realize that until they are assigned an expedition and only have a couple of days to make arrangements for their pets.”