Bloodlines

other, I searched for the body. I found it at the far end of the place, shoved behind the wood stove. The body lay on the dirt floor, but the head and shoulders, weirdly encased in clear plastic, rested on a pile of logs, as if he’d stretched out to rest with his head propped up on a hard, rough pillow. His black shoes were muddy, and flecks of wood and bits of debris dirtied his dark suit. The plastic had slipped from the top of the head. The beam of my flashlight shone on crimped white-blond hair.
    I shot ten pictures one right after the other. Then I staggered outside and vomited. When I wiped my hand across my mouth, my own skin reeked.
    As always, a dog brought me to myself. Missy was thumping and scratching at her door. I closed and latched the door to the shed that held the corpse. Then I opened Missy’s door, grabbed her leash, shut the door and barred it. Less than a minute later, she was dashing along the rough track that led through the woods and to my car. I stumbled after her.
     

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    Opponents of crate training point out that the ancestors of our domestic dogs were not denning animals, and it’s true that wolves are nomads who use the den exclusively as a nursery for their pups. When the pups are old enough to rove with the adults, the pack abandons the den until the arrival of a new litter. In many respects, both anatomical and behavioral, though, the domestic dog is like a juvenile wolf. Neoteny, it’s called, the retention of immature characteristics in adulthood, like the little wolf-pup teeth of grown-up dogs. Face licking? Food begging. And denning? Maybe. But neoteny is no excuse for cruelty; a den is a nursery, not a jail. A crate can be a portable den, welcome protection from car crashes and dog-show chaos, but the dog who’s crated half his life is a dog with atrophied muscles and an atrophied mind.
    Normally, then, I’m a crate training mugwump. When Missy and I reached the Bronco, though, I felt grateful to Enid Sievers for what I suspected was an overuse of the Vari-Kennel she’d tried to sell me. Although the crates in my car were wire mesh, not polypropylene, when I opened the tailgate, Missy hopped up and in like a show-circuit veteran and happily settled herself on a threadbare pink blanket. I gave her a drink of water and a handful of dog biscuits, replenished the supply in my pockets, and latched the cage. The rain had stopped. I pulled off the poncho, stowed it in the back of the car, and closed the tailgate.
    Then I headed back.
    Why? Neoteny, maybe. Pm an honorary malamute now, but I was raised by goldens as a golden. If I abandoned that bitch? She could go into labor any time, and I wasn’t sure that she’d survive it on her own. The presence of a dead human body would immediately rouse the police, but would they also raid the puppy mill and save the dogs? A raid could involve the MSPCA, the Colley Society, local animal control officials, and the local health department, as well as the state police or a deputy sheriff. Also, a raid would inevitably mean the arrival of a veterinarian, and I was as worried about the vet as I was about delay. Euthanasia is a sad and sometimes necessary fact of raids on puppy mills; the attending vet euthanizes the dogs deemed beyond salvation. The golden? She was filthy, wasted, and miserable, but she’d shown no sign of acute illness or pain. I thought she stood a chance of recovery. But would the attending vet agree? The extra crate was sitting empty in the Bronco; the golden’s miserable, filthy shed was only a short distance from the edge of the woods; and I’d discovered a quick, smooth route that would get me there and back in under ten minutes. A faint prelude to dawn was just beginning to color the sky: I wouldn’t even need a flashlight. If she couldn’t walk? A mature golden retriever bitch weighs about sixty pounds. This one, although heavily pregnant, couldn’t be more than forty-five pounds; if she couldn’t cover the distance on her own, I’d carry her.
    It took me less than five minutes to reach the far end of the rough trail through the woods. The predawn light was already reducing the dimensions of the cleared land around the Simmses’ house. I glanced around, stepped into the open, and crossed rapidly to the shelter of the golden’s shed. Then I hesitated. If she’d started to whelp? I hadn’t promised to save her; I was here only to give her a chance. I pulled out my big flashlight, but, this time,