Bloodlines

Flee-B-Gon product line. But, as I'd assured Cheryl Simms, the stuff really is safe to drink.
    “But this is Wednesday. That was—”
    “Then it must have been something else. I keep throwing up. Chicken! I ate some chicken. I knew it tasted funny.”
    When Steve had failed to talk me into going to the Mount Auburn emergency room, he offered to come and take care of me, but I assured him that I was already feeling better and just needed to go to sleep. Alone. We exchanged our usual sweet nothings about the cute things our dogs had done recently, and I promised to call him the next day.
    Then I went upstairs to Rita’s and persuaded her to take care of Rowdy and Kimi in the morning. The previous spring, when I'd had a different reason to ask the same favor, Rita heard me out and ended up eyeing me as if I'd lost my mind. Rita is a clinical psychologist. In other circumstances, I might have paused to evaluate my own sanity, but, in the sport of tracking, predawn madness is normal and necessary.
    “Let me get this straight,” Rita had said solemnly. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but as I understand it, you want me to let your dogs out and in, and give them breakfast, because you’re getting up at four A.M. and driving an hour and a half to an empty field where you’re going to take a walk so that, sometime later, a dog can come along and follow in your footsteps.”
    Before she’d gone on to refer me to a psychiatrist who specialized in heavy-duty medication, I explained that I owed it to the club to help and that it isn’t all that easy to recruit experienced track layers. She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and said that she couldn’t imagine why not.
    As you’ll have gathered, Rita is not a real dog person. Tracking tests around here always take place on weekends and never in winter. A tracking test on a Thursday morning in the middle of February? But Rita bought the story and agreed to help with the dogs. As usual, she touted out a few silly rationalizations about why she couldn’t walk them, even one at a time. In my absence, Rowdy might decide to take on his archenemy, an aggressive neighborhood cocker owned by people incapable of socializing a goldfish. Kimi might be seized by one of her frenzied impulses to dash around in wild circles until Rita ended up like a trussed chicken, her ankles bound by the leash. Hadn’t I once remarked that the Alaskan malamute wasn’t a scissor able breed? Well, it wasn’t a walkable breed, either, and it was barely feedable, too. But I didn’t protest. The yard is fenced. I just said thanks.
    Then I prepared the Bronco. The back already held two large wire-mesh dog crates and two blankets. I added some additional blankets, two bowls, and a gallon jug of fresh water. Back indoors, I got out a medium-size dark gray backpack and began to assemble the items I’d need. I put a fresh bulb and two new D batteries in one flashlight and also replaced the bulb and the two AA batteries in the Mini Mag-Lite my father gave me for Christmas.
    In a burgundy case on the top shelf of my bedroom closet, I found another present from Buck, a Smith & Wesson Model 60 Ladysmith, stainless steel with a frosted finish, the pocket pit bull of .38 specials, the perfect companion animal for the girl who really, really can say no. I’m more at home with a deer rifle or a .22 than I am with a revolver, but I’m not a bad shot. When you had a date to go to the movies, I had one to go out to the dump and shoot rats. Repulsive? Now, yes, but remember that there weren’t any movie theaters in Owls Head. Also, I did learn to hit a moving target. So I added the Ladysmith, ammo, the holster (another Christmas present), a pair of wire cutters, a small camera with a built-in flash, a nylon training collar, a six-foot leather lead, and a length of gauze that would do as a muzzle.
    Then I concentrated on the big problem: the noise of the dogs. As you probably know, bark-control devices are in vogue these days. The simplest kind is just a tight muzzle that holds the dog’s mouth shut. But how many dogs did Walter and Cheryl Simms have? I didn’t know for sure, but far too many for me to run around muzzling. Antibark collars would have the same drawback. You know what they are? Some emit high-frequency sound waves that bother a dog’s sensitive ears. The others are bark-triggered shock collars, which I wouldn’t have used even if I’d had the requisite supply sitting around. Write me off as a