He tosses the file onto the console between us. “Come on, for you, Marie? Of course, I’ll do what I can. I mean, how often have you dropped everything to help us out?”
“Once or twice.” I’ve long since lost count of the number of times I’ve been called in to treat an animal that Howie or one of the other officers has brought in on account of abuse. I’ve never minded, especially when it’s Howie calling. He’s been doing this job since I graduated from Washington State University with my veterinarian degree and returned to Alaska. The forty-four-year-old and I became friends long ago, the moment we realized we were kindred spirits where animals were involved.
His forehead wrinkles. “The office really should be phoning this guy to let him know we’re coming.”
“So he has time to hide what he doesn’t want you seeing?”
“Yeah, makes you wonder, right?” He taps against the clipboard on my lap, holding the complaint form I filled out on the way here. A case file number is already scrawled across the top in Howie’s scribble. “You done with that?”
“Yeah. Everything’s there.” All the facts provided to me—minus Bonnie’s baseless accusations—after the Hatchetts arrived at my clinic.
“At least we’re doing some of this by the book. You know it’s already going to be a tough sell. And we can’t just barrel in there with accusations. We don’t even know if the dog is his.”
“I know.” She’s not microchipped. I already scanned her.
“Okay, then. Let’s go stir up some shit.” He slides out of the driver’s side and rustles around in the toolbox in his truck bed, pulling out his bolt cutters.
In his jeans and parka, with wisps of hair peeking out from beneath his knitted Giants cap, Howie cuts through the mushing facility’s entrance gate—and nothing about this Sunday afternoon looks “by the book.” But showing up here like two regular people who found a wandering dog, rather than an animal control officer and a veterinarian hunting for an abuser, might get us the information we need.
I shift my attention to our nervous passenger in the back, offering her a gloveless hand to sniff. Though skittish, she’s beginning to warm to me already. I would have preferred leaving her at the clinic, if we’re coming out here to accuse this guy of cruelty, we need the victim with us. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you fixed up, good as new,” I promise.
A white lie. The dog’s in rough shape. How rough, I can’t say yet. Cory’s running a few preliminary blood tests while the more complex ones will have to go to a lab. I did what I could for the oozing sores, cleaning and applying ointment, and dosing her with a round of antibiotics. She’ll need a special feeding plan to put some meat on her bones, and the abscess on her gums will require close attention.
In moments, Howie has cut the chain and pushed the gate open, fastening it to a nearby tree to keep it that way. Tossing the cutters back into his toolbox, he climbs in and throws the truck into gear, and we’re heading down the gravel driveway toward a plume of smoke. The snowy Talkeetna Mountains cut into the cold, crisp blue sky.
The spectacular view does little for the knots in my stomach, as I wish whatever situation we’re walking into could be over already. I’m not made for confrontation. Not like Jonah, who strolls headfirst into a tense situation and bucks around like a bronco with a cowboy spurring its haunches. But I can dig up courage when I’m protecting a helpless animal, and one look at this dog draws searing anger to my tongue.
In the clearing ahead is a ranch-style house with a wraparound deck, designed to enjoy the view. Several outbuildings are scattered throughout, their open doors revealing the various storage purposes—wood, ATVs, tools. It’s typical of any rural Alaskan property I’ve ever stepped foot on.
What’s not typical is the looming barn to our left, freshly clad in vivid red siding that reminds me of the barns in Sweden I saw many years ago as a college student backpacking across Europe for the summer between first and second year.
“He’s got a nice piece of land here.” Howie parks behind a side-by-side utility vehicle. “How many acres you thinkin’？ A hundred? Two?”
“The Dansons had horses, so a fair amount, I’m guessing.” And this Tyler guy is clearly using those stalls. Someone—I doubt the Dansons—has spent a considerable amount of money, and not just on the barn. Closed-panel fence boards that easily reach seven feet high begin at the side of the barn and extend far beyond my view.