A Bloodhound to Die for

by Virginia Lanier

  “Life is a crap shoot, Jo Beth. You can’t always hedge your bets.”

  “I’m gonna damn sure try,” I said with determination. “And that’s a surprising observation from a devout Southern Christian lady like yourself.”

  She answered with a warm smile and a wink of conspiracy. “It’s just you and me, kid.”

  I laughed at her nonsense. “I read an article a few days ago that I’ve been meaning to discuss with you,” I said, changing the subject. “I want to check it out today. It’s called the theory of the dominant hand.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Basically it’s to help you guide the man-trailing dog when a trail forks and the dog is having trouble picking up the scent.

  “A person panicked, running on instinct alone, and not familiar with the terrain will choose to turn in the direction of the dominant hand. Thus we now have another question to ask when we are in pursuit, whether the victim is right-handed or left-handed.

  “A right-handed person will turn to the right, and a left-handed person will turn to the left. This is not a scientific theory, but it appears to work time and time again. The choice is made unconsciously. It seems that if the subject decides to backtrack, the same scenario applies—they turn right or left, according to their dominant hand.”

  “It sounds reasonable.”

  “This should help when the scent is blown all over the landscape in high winds. Might cut down on the search time.”

  “Do you think that she’ll be difficult to find?”

  “Her name is Beulah and her mind is completely gone. Her seventy-seven-year-old husband is her sole health provider and does a very good job, but no one can watch a person twenty-four hours out of a twenty-four-hour day, day in and day out. It’s impossible. I admire the old man and his devotion, especially since she doesn’t know him from Adam’s house cat and isn’t aware of his sacrifice. Their children pressed to put her in a nursing home last year, and even if we do find her and she’s okay, I’m afraid they will prevail this time. If she’s sent to a home, it will probably finish both of them. His only reason for getting up each morning is to take care of her.”

  “Will we both start out together?”

  “If my memory is correct, the undergrowth is heavy around the creek, but there’s a narrow trail that’s fairly accessible, with lots of twists and turns following the curve of the stream. I’ll start out and you can follow on an independent trail about ten minutes later.”

  “What was the weather report this morning?”

  “Sixty percent possibility of scattered showers this afternoon and tonight. That deluge we got yesterday at the funeral didn’t make it this far east. Look at the road.”

  I had slowed my speed and let Hank get almost out of sight so we wouldn’t be eating his dust. We were bone dry in this neck of the woods and the dust swirls generated by his fast driving were taking long seconds to clear from the air.

  Jasmine searched the sky for smoke. “The wind seems to be coming out of the north. How are the wildfires across the line, in Florida?”

  “The small one has been contained, but the one in the southern portion of the swamp has now consumed over forty thousand acres.”

  “They say that’s good for the swamp, renews the forest, but I always worry about the wildlife.”

  “The animals love the new young green shoots that come up after a fire, but I worry about the firefighters who are trying to contain the perimeters, putting out hot spots, and nuts like us who tromp through the brush during afternoon thunderstorms that generate lightning strikes.”

  “Have you ever been near a forest fire?”

  “Not even close, thank the Lord, nor do I ever wish to be. Fire can move faster than I can run.”

  Hank wasn’t in sight when I slowed for the turn onto a narrow dirt road that led to the Burton homestead. After a mile or so, we could see the house through a clear-cut that had been planted the previous fall.

  “All the acreage around the house has been leveled since last year. It was old growth. Lumber prices have gone through the roof during the past eighteen months. The pulp mills are running double shifts.”

  Hank was out of his unit and standing on the front porch of the small frame house that squatted at the edge of the swamp on a shallow lot of hard-packed clay. Not one blade of grass marred the cleared area. It was swept clean with a homemade broom of dried sage grass. Mr. Hiram still practiced a lot of the old ways of living, before we became so dependent on mechanical devices.

  An ancient, battered truck was under an open-sided shed that leaned precariously to the right. Its appearance was deceptive. Most people would decide it was an accident waiting to happen, but he knew it would still be standing long after he was gone. He’d probably built it himself sixty or more years ago.

  Three modern cars were parked haphazardly in front of the porch. The two sons and daughter had arrived before us. I had thought that Mr. Hiram was lucky because his three children lived in the same small town where they’d been raised, until last year. I met them then after my search for their mother, when I returned her. They were outraged and shocked and disgusted with their father for not taking their advice and putting their mother into a nursing home. I had secretly wondered if Mr. Hiram considered them a blessing or a curse. I’m not a parent, and don’t have any living parents, so I tried not to judge their actions too harshly.

  I pulled up, shut off the motor, and sighed.

  “You want to fill me in?” Jasmine was eyeing the three people who were standing facing the front-porch swing where Mr. Hiram sat slumped with his head resting in his hands.

  “They are the we-told-you-so and we-knew-you-couldn’t-handle-it contingent, the children, bless their nit-picking, narrow-minded little hearts.”

  “Since they seem to be between forty and fifty, the term ‘children’ doesn’t seem appropriate somehow. I have discerned two thoughts from the looks that they are directing our way. They seem to feel toward you exactly the same way you feel about them, and they don’t cotton to black folk.”

  “Let’s suit up and go let them get it out of their systems. Maybe they’ll feel better after. I’m trying to remember that they are worried about their mother.”

  We donned our rescue suits and helped each other with our snake leggings. Unloading the dogs, we attached their leads to the side of the van.

  Silently we mounted the single step to the porch and waited for Hank to make the introductions. Mrs. Phelps, the female of the trio, could hardly wait until Hank finished speaking.

  “What’s she doing here?” she asked Hank, motioning Jasmine’s way so no one would have any doubt about who she was discussing.

  “Jasmine has come to help me search for your lost mama,” I replied softly. “Wasn’t that nice of her?”

  “I was speaking to Sheriff Cribbs!” She was keeping her eyes on Hank and hadn’t turned to face me.

  “Mrs. Phelps, Ms. Jones is a qualified and certified member of the Dunston County Search-and-Rescue team under contract with the Dunston County Sheriff’s Department. Without her assistance, I’m sure Ms. Sidden would have to call off the search attempt. Do you have an objection?”

  Hank’s voice had been reasonable and pleasant, but I’m sure that everyone within hearing range had gotten the message that he was very displeased with Mrs. Phelps’s ill-advised question. She glanced at her brothers and quickly entered the house without speaking.

  I drew up a straight-backed chair with an ancient cowhide-covered seat and sat gingerly on its uneven surface, facing Mr. Hiram.

  “Mr. Hiram? I’m Jo Beth Sidden. I found your wife last year down near the creek. Do you remember?”

  He raised his ravaged countenance and searched my face.

  “Will you find her?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

  “I’ll find her, I promise. Do you know when she left?”

  “She seemed tired about eleven or so, she was hurting with her arthritis something awful last nig
ht. I figured that she would sleep a couple of hours since I gave her one of her pills to relax her.” He hung his head in shame. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I just laid down beside her to keep her company. I woke up at twelve and she was gone.”

  He looked so miserable I clasped his folded hands and raised my voice.

  “It wasn’t your fault, so don’t go blaming yourself. Is Miz Beulah right- or left-handed?”

  “What does that have to do with trying to find her?” the elder son blurted out. “Why aren’t you out there looking for her instead of asking asinine questions?” His hand was in his pocket nervously jingling his loose change and the noise was annoying. I glanced at Hank and ignored him.

  Hiram Burton scratched his head. “Well, that’s a hard question to answer, and I’ll have to do some explaining to you. Back when Beulah and I were very young, it was thought to be unlucky, at best, if you wrote with your left hand, and some even thought that it was the sign of demon possession. Beulah said that as soon as she could make a fist and hold a pencil or crayon everyone would move it from her left hand to her right and fuss at her to boot. When she started school, the teachers did the same thing. She said it was easier for her to learn how to use her right hand when someone was around, so she did everything amper, ampher, I can’t recall the word I’m trying to say…”

  “Ambidextrous,” I supplied.

  “Yes’m. She could use either one.”

  The first time I wanted to try the dominant hand and I had to hit a snag. Since I didn’t know which was really the dominant hand, it was no help.

  “That’s a big help,” I fibbed to make him feel better. “Do you have two objects that she’s worn or handled often that haven’t been washed?”

  “I didn’t know you needed two. I brought one of her house slippers. I picked it up like you showed me last year, with a pair of kitchen tongs. I’ll go get the other one.”

  He left, walking purposefully to get it. He wanted to help so badly because he blamed himself for letting her slip away. I heard Hank in the background getting rid of both sons, herding them inside the house and out of my hair.

  14

  “Gulliver’s Nose at Work”

  August 27, Tuesday, 1:35 P.M.

  Jasmine and I stood silently waiting for Mr. Hiram to return with Beulah’s slippers. His step returning was a little faster than his pace in leaving had been. He allowed a brief smile to flit across his saddened features.

  “She changed from her slippers to her Indian moccasins. She knows not to wear her bedroom slippers outside. Since … her illness, she likes bright colors. The shoes she’s wearing are bright red with colored beads.”

  He seemed heartened that she had remembered to change shoes before she went outside, but all I could wonder was if she also remembered that she was breaking the rules by leaving without him in attendance. I pictured a seventy-three-year-old Dorothy with thin silver-colored braids, in a faded housedress, pale legs roped with varicose veins flashing between hemline and red flats. The road she was traveling was not yellow brick but moist peat in an overgrown swamp with hidden monsters. I suppressed a shudder.

  The bedroom scuffs were washable, pink cotton fleece and were excellent scent articles. He had carried them correctly with the kitchen tongs inserted inside each toe.

  “Do you remember how long she’s worn them?”

  “Last night since about five P.M. and until eleven today. She has … accidents and I rotate four pairs.”

  “Does she slip them on and off herself?” I hoped they weren’t too contaminated with his scent. It might confuse the dogs.

  “She dresses herself,” he said proudly, “most times.” He was trying to be completely truthful.

  I mentally complimented Miz Beulah once again on her excellent choice of a lifetime companion. I knew that God must still make these sturdy, dependable, and dedicated men, and I felt sorry that so many of us womenfolk just didn’t know how to find one.

  Jasmine and I slipped the shoes into Ziploc baggies without touching them, as we hadn’t put on our gloves.

  At the truck, we donned our rescue suits and backpacks and unhooked the dogs and let them find a perfect bush to piddle on. The afternoon sun was hot and humid. With the air cut off, we were already sweating.

  “When we pick up a scent, Gulliver and I’ll leave first,” I told Jasmine. “When we’re out of sight, I’ll do a radio check. Wait ten minutes and start Ramona. If we have any divergent trails, check in and we can see if we’re both on the same track.”

  We both lowered our front zippers and untied the bandannas that we had placed around our waists when we’d dressed at home, placed them in a baggie, and exchanged them. This was a precaution that we used when we ran two different trails. We never used ourselves for scent work at the kennels, and now had a scent item of each other’s so that if one of us got lost or hurt, the other would have a way of tracking.

  When you placed bloodhounds on a scent, it sometimes confused them when you had to change scent articles and begin to look for another trail. Bloodhounds were each individually trained and, just like people, had their own eccentricities and behavior patterns. At any given point in one outing, they could be clownish, showing a well-defined sense of humor, solemn, dedicated, and uninterested. The important part of training a bloodhound was understanding his or her actions or moods. This was not always easy.

  Gulliver was an excellent man trailer but could also be a handful if he wasn’t in a good mood. He was intelligent, but you had to keep his attention undivided. I was afraid that if I started Jasmine and Ramona directly behind him, he might take umbrage. He and I had a language problem and I wasn’t a good mind reader.

  I squatted in front of him and placed two pieces of dried deer jerky in the palm of my glove. This was to alert him that we were now working, and it did wonders getting his attention. He inhaled them and watched my hand intently. I unzipped the baggie and placed the opening under his nose. He took a deep sniff and stood, resolute, staring at my gloved hand.

  “Seek, Gulliver. Find your man, find your man!” I spoke quickly, with animation, and sounded upbeat and excited. Without a flicker of interest, he still stood, resolute, and continued to stare at my gloved hand.

  I took a deep breath. This might be a long, long afternoon. I repeated the process, giving him a bright chirpy order to “seek.” No reaction. It occurred to me that he might be holding out for additional jerky. I stared at him and shoved the bag under his nose for another sniff. He still didn’t move.

  I sighed under my breath and tried to slip out the second handful of jerky for him without Jasmine spotting my actions. She doesn’t believe in breaking routine because a dog is being stubborn. I’m the biggest sucker who trains in the kennel. Most know that they can con me with little effort. My back was to Jasmine and she was standing several yards away from us.

  At the delivery of the second serving, the ham began the jiggle dance, wriggling his body in excitement and placing his big nostrils and elongated ears near the ground and getting down to business. I had been conned.

  In the ten minutes I had been encased in the airless Kevlar Day-Glo rescue suit, the perspiration was trickling down inside, dampening my T-shirt and jeans. It was eighty-six degrees and should peak at over ninety about five P.M., unless the predicted sixty percent chance of rain appeared. I eyed the small cirrus cloud smears floating lazily in the brilliant azure sky, from east to west, and hoped it would hold off until we could find Miz Beulah and return.

  The family and Hank all stood on the front porch watching Gulliver traverse an eight-foot area back and forth with me trailing behind. He was trying to pick up the one scent that he had been trained to search for and identify, and separate it from the thousand others that were in the air and on the ground.

  Even after seeing this for several years on hundreds of trails, I was still amazed by the awesome ability that had been bred into this noble bloodhound breed, and their enduring trait of following where their
noses led them until they dropped. Owners and trainers fed them, cared for them, gave them rules of conduct. Then we could only follow along behind and let them do the work and perform their magic.

  We went around the shrubbery close to the house and turned west, going toward the rear of the house, turned again, and stopped at the small screened porch at the rear. Gulliver traveled up two steps as I held the screen door open for his passage. He inspected the back door, the floor, and smelled the wooden rockers before he turned and indicated he wanted to go back outside.

  He headed toward the listing shed that housed the ancient truck and circled the old shelves of tools stored in the center of the small building. Back out in the open under the hot sun, he headed east and followed the bushes planted near the house, going back to the low, open front porch where our former audience could now see us and our progress.

  He was so intent on his search that he didn’t detour over to greet Ramona, who was stretched out taking a nap under a small live oak shade tree, and Jasmine, who was leaning patiently against its trunk. I was proud of him. Some man-trailers will lose their concentration and occasionally stop and smell the roses or any other interesting scent that appears.

  Gulliver headed up the front porch, and everyone scattered as he ignored them and sniffed the screen door and inspected the porch swing where Mr. Hiram was now sitting. I saw the old man starting to move his hand to pat Gulliver and then reluctantly stop the motion when he remembered that he might break the dog’s concentration.

  Last year when Ashley and I had slowly guided back a bewildered Miz Beulah from her impromptu trip to the creek, Hiram had hugged his wife and then dropped to his knees and also hugged Ashley, tears in his eyes. I sincerely hoped that Gulliver would be able to earn his hug this afternoon if we could safely return with Miz Beulah.

  I had mentioned at the time of the previous search that I hadn’t seen a yard dog and that our local SPCA had several appropriate candidates on hand. Being on the board, I was always seeking good homes for our unfortunate detainees and heard the longing in his reluctant refusal. I knew it was either the cost of upkeep or thinking he could not spend any time away from the care of his wife, so I didn’t question it.