Maggie began barking again when the doorbell rang. I tightly gripped her leash, and we joined the others in the living room. Ken opened the front door, where another policeman stood. This officer, a slightly pudgy man, nodded in greeting to his fellow officers, then focused his gaze on Ken and said sternly, “Ken Culberson?”
“Yes.”
“Would you come with me, please?”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, sir. We’d just like to ask you some questions at the station house. We’ve got an open case of grave desecration that we’re hoping you can help us resolve.”
Ken straightened his shoulders and said indignantly, “I’d never let my dog desecrate on somebody’s grave!”
All three police officers tried to cover their laughter. “No, Ken, he’s talking about grave robbing,” I explained. “You’re thinking of something slightly different.”
“Grave robbing?” Ken repeated. He returned his attention to the policemen, who had quickly regained their composure, and said, “But Mary ain’t got a gravestone, so how was Maggie ’n’ me s’posed to know we was robbin’ her grave?”
I winced. Predictably, the officers exchanged glances. The last to arrive placed his hand on Ken’s shoulder and said, “How ’bout telling me all about that on our way to the police station?”
Ken grabbed his head, his eyes white with fear. He nodded. “Allie? You’ll see to it that my Maggie is taken care of while I’m gone, won’t you?”
“Of course I will.” I grabbed a pen, scribbled my number on a corner of the top sheet of newspaper in the nearest stack, tore around my writing, and handed the fragment of paper to Ken. “Here’s my home phone number. But, Ken, get yourself a lawyer before you say another word.”
He shut his mouth, gave me a single nod, then went out the door. Predictably, Maggie tried to bolt out the door with him and nearly succeeded in pulling me along. As the last officer started to shut the door behind him, I asked, “How long do you think this will take?”
He shrugged. “Now that a lawyer’s going to be involved, I wouldn’t hold your breath.” He looked back at me, his surly demeanor softening a bit. “Best case, a couple of hours.”
“And worst case?”
“That’s going to depend on what he has to say.”
Chapter 5
The moment the officer pulled Ken’s front door shut, Maggie scurried up the stacks of newspapers in front of the window. Hoping it would help her to feel at least slightly more in control, I released my grip on her leash. As the car bearing her owner drove from sight, Maggie let out a great howl that had some ten different tonal pitches within one long exhale of canine despair. The effect was halfway between a ghostly wail and the greatly amplified rumblings of an empty stomach.
She raced to the kitchen to see if the back door was open, which I’d already slid shut. I followed her and took a seat at the table to demonstrate that I wasn’t on the verge of leaving her completely alone. After pacing and whining at the glass door, Maggie rushed to my seat at the kitchen table and tried to jump into my lap, which I prevented; cuddling her would only reinforce her behavior. When I bent down to pet her, she pulled away. She was so desperate to convince me to follow her to the door that she put too much body English into her turn and fell into a scrambling somersault.
“Oh, my goodness,” I cried. “You poor thing. It must be so frightening to be separated from your owner for the first time. I’m so sorry, Maggie.” It struck me a moment later that I was doing exactly what I’d admonished Ken for doing earlier—treating her as though she were human—but then I decided that nowhere in the Great Book of Dog Psychologists was it written that we can’t talk to our patients. This was especially true when there were no witnesses.
“Come, Maggie,” I said, rising and heading toward the living room. She was about to go there anyway, but this way I could reward her for responding to my command. She trotted toward me, but she appeared to not even see me. “Good dog!” I got on my knees and tried to throw an arm around her neck to stroke her, but she pulled away too fast.
She darted between me and the wooden front door, panting and letting out audible whines of increasing frequency and intensity. After three or four round trips, she made a hell-bent dash for freedom. She barrelled head first into the door, letting out a little whimper of pain after the thud of her impact. Stunned, she sat down.
While Maggie was still seated and doing nothing destructive, I operated my clicker. The dog showed no recognition of the sound whatsoever.
“Maggie! Treat!” Still nothing. She raced past me toward the back door. I lunged for her leash. She dodged past, leaving me calling helplessly and stupidly, “Maggie gets a treat!” I winced when the thud of dog-head-on-sturdy-glass resounded an instant later. That wasn’t what I’d had in mind, either.
Maggie had a full-throttle case of barrier anxiety. “Damn it! I should have seen this coming!” I chastised myself.
Hearing a man’s voice outside, I looked up and saw a couple of men wearing dark blue wind breakers that sported some official police emblem. The sound of Maggie bashing against the sliding glass door had caused them to rush to the doorway. These must be the crime-scene investigators that the police officer had said would be arriving.
Maggie began trying to claw her way through the glass at them. The two men stared at her. I managed to grab her leash. She jumped against the door, still clawing at the glass with her front paws.
“I could use some help in here!” I called to the officers as I pulled Maggie back onto all fours. She jerked madly, trying to whip her head from side to side while pulling back, but I got both hands on the leash and held tight.
“What do you want us to do?” one of the men said to me through the glass.
“Door’s unlocked,” I said. In a hand-over-hand operation, I worked my way up the leash in an attempt to get more immediate control of her.
Behind me, they slid the door open. That opportunity to escape and chase after her owner gave Maggie renewed energy. She was tugging and rearing with the force of a bucking bronco.
“Is he gonna bite?” the other man asked.
“Not while I’ve got her on such a short leash,” I said, having worked my way down the leash so that I was holding on right underneath her chin.
“That dog’s going to hurt himself, crashing into things like that,” his companion remarked as he shut the door behind him.
Still holding onto Maggie’s collar for all I was worth, I fought the temptation to scream at him: Does the word “duh” mean anything to you?
“What can we do?” the first man asked.
I had to get my keys out of my front pants pocket and wasn’t willing to let one of these men do the honors. “Steady her for a moment.” He wrapped his arms around her, and I braced myself as I released my left hand. Sensing the loosening on her leash, Maggie pulled harder.
“Yow!” She nearly yanked my right arm out of the socket. I got my keys out and tossed them on the floor in the direction of the officers. “The red Subaru out front,” I said, restoring my two-handed grip on the dog’s leash. “Behind the back seat. There’s a dog seatbelt. Looks like a small harness. Bring that.”
He dashed out, the remaining investigator now shaking his head and chuckling. “I’d help you, if there was more room to grab her. I mean, you must weigh all of, what, eighty pounds dripping wet?”
“With any luck, you’ll never find out,” I growled at him. “Sit!” I shouted at Maggie just as she seemed to be doing so anyway, really only in an effort to try a new way to break free from me, but this was the opening I needed to reassure her. She sat down, and in a high-pitched voice full of feigned enthusiasm, I clicked my tongue and said, “Good dog! That is such a good dog!”
Maggie had made a tactical mistake. She’d managed to back herself into a corner. It was only going to be a matter of time till she figured out that she could barrel into me just like she had the door, only with better results.
�
�Can you please take her leash from me for a minute?”
He hesitated a moment, but then said, “Sure,” grabbed the leash firmly, and I let go. My fingers felt as though they’d been turned into painful arthritic claws. Maggie strained against the leash, but knew she was no match for this much stronger male person now holding her.
The other investigator returned with the dog seat belt, and I snapped it around Maggie’s shoulders and asked the officers if they’d keep a hold on her leash until we got her into the back seat of my car.
“You’re going to put this dog into a car?”
“She’ll be fine. She’ll think I’m taking her to her owner. And she’ll be belted in the back seat where she can’t get into trouble.”
We made our way outside. As I’d predicted, far from resisting, Maggie tried to outrace us to the car. I had the harness buckled into the seatbelt before she knew what hit her. Now, though, she tried to get free from that, but the belt held her in a less-than-upright position, so she couldn’t get her limbs fully extended to put much force into anything.
I allowed myself a brief sigh of relief, but knew that my work was far from over. “Lie down.” She almost was in a fully prone position, but the key was to give the command first so that I could praise her. The instant her belly was fully on the back seat, I said, “Good dog, Maggie,” and stroked her. She needed desperately to be soothed, but doing so in advance of her reaction to the command only rewarded and encouraged her wild behavior.
The men were watching her with expressions of disgust on their faces. “Are you going to be all right with that dog?” one asked.
Holding up one finger, but still keeping my vision focused solely on Maggie, I said, “Lie down. Such a good dog. Hand me the pen and pad in the glove box. Please.” I dashed off a note to Ken indicating that Maggie was fine— which was reasonably accurate—and that I was taking her home with me, so he should call me there. Then I asked the investigators, “Could one of you please go back inside, stick this on the table, and lock the door behind you?”
“Sure thing,” one of them replied. I thanked him and started the engine, though the question Now what? was foremost on my mind. Maggie would only develop barrier anxiety again, once inside my home with no sign of Ken.
“You need some of T-Rex’s Clomicalm, don’t you, Maggie?” I glanced at Ruby’s trailer, but was not about to give Maggie another dog’s medication.
I drove off, deciding to keep taking left turns to buy me some time until I could devise a plan. Just about the second revolution around the trailer park, I gasped at a realization that hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks: My dinner with Russell!
Maggie was letting out frantic little whines with her every pant. “Oh, Maggie. You know what? If I had even an ounce of sanity, I’d be making love for the first time in years right now with a wonderful man who loves me. But, no, I’m driving in circles with a frantic golden retriever, who’s never even been taught her own name. Yes, Maggie. That’s right. I’m the one who should be on Prozac. It’s we people who are the crazy ones. And don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.”
Maggie let out a long, plaintive whine, still struggling to get into the front seat. We were on Violet again. It occurred to me that, somewhere nearby, was Maggie’s veterinarian, Dr. Palmer, who, sight unseen, had been bad-mouthing me. It was unlikely that her office was still open at this hour, but it was worth a shot. Maggie truly was in need of narcotics—not as a means to deaden a dog’s exuberant temperament as with T-Rex, but to alleviate high-level anxiety, which was the intended purpose of the medicine.
I slowed and scanned both sides of the street. The office must be well hidden. Finally, though, I spotted a sign for an “animal clinic” and headed down the long gravel driveway.
The small, older, two-story white-painted building at the end of the drive was obviously a home that had been converted into a business. From the layout, it was clear that the office was in front. The lights were on upstairs, though not in the office area. I parked, reached back and reassured Maggie for a minute or two, then went to the door. A plaque on the door read: Joanne Palmer, DVM. I pushed a button and a buzzer resounded.
While waiting for Dr. Palmer, I kept an eye on the windows of the car. Maggie whimpered and raised up as much as the seatbelt would allow, no doubt hoping that Ken would be here.
A woman came to the door, keeping a chain in place and opening it only a couple of inches. “Can I help you?” she asked.
I was startled at her appearance, or at least by what little I could view through the crack in the door. She was a petite, strawberry blonde, who bore a slight resemblance to the picture of Mary that Ken had shown me. “Are you Dr. Palmer?”
“Yes.”
“I have a badly distressed patient of yours in my car. She’s experiencing severe separation anxiety.”
“Just a moment.” She unfastened the chain and swung the door fully open. The illusion that she looked like Mary Martin Culberson was lost. Though she had roughly the same short stature and slight frame as Mary, facially they were quite different. This woman had a hawk nose, thinner lips, and a rounder shape to her face. Even though she’d opened the door, she held up her palms and said, “Ma’am, my office is closed. Is this something that can wait till morning?”
“No. I’m sorry. It really can’t.”
She peered at me, wiped her hands on her jeans, and said, “Let me take a quick look.”
We had only taken a couple of steps, when she caught sight of the golden through the window and said, “Maggie? How did you get her ?” She turned toward me. “Are you a friend of Ken Culberson’s or something?”
“Not exactly a friend, no. He hired me to work with Maggie.” I said purposefully, “My name’s Allida Babcock.”
“You’re Allida Babcock?” she asked in surprise.
“Yes, and I’ve heard you have a negative opinion about me.”
“It’s nothing personal. It’s that you’re purporting to be a dog therapist when you don’t have the medical credentials.”
“I’ve made no bones about that.” I winced a bit at my inadvertent pun, but went on. “In fact, I’ve teamed with several of your colleagues to help dogs on Clomicalm make effective use of the drug.”
She opened the back door of my Subaru. Maggie struggled to get closer to her. “That’s a good doggie, hey sweetie,” Dr. Palmer murmured soothingly, scooting onto the seat beside the dog.
Though impressed by her rapport with Maggie, I was now pretty agitated myself. Having a local veterinarian assume that I’d been trying to pass myself off as a veterinarian needed to be resolved; my business depended upon referrals. I leaned inside the car myself and said, “I know you prescribe Clomicalm for your patients.”
“Of course. I’m sure you’re aware that separation anxiety is suffered by as many as ten percent of all dogs. And forty percent of all canine visits to the veterinarian are related to separation anxiety.”
“Right, but don’t you recommend dog trainers, if not behaviorists, to help the dogs adjust?”
“No. That strikes me as an unnecessary expense to my patients.” Still petting Maggie, she gestured with her chin in the direction of the trailer park. “A percentage of my clients can’t afford tacked-on services.”
“But why dissuade your clients from getting professional help in the dog’s behavior modification? Without behavior modification, the medicine doesn’t work.”
“That’s your opinion.”
Through a tight jaw, I replied, “It’s an opinion that’s been backed up and documented in years of studies at various locations around the world. By the way, another patient of yours could use a thorough check-up soon. T-Rex.”
“T-Rex? The Lab mix?”
“Do you have more than one patient by that name?”
“Yes, I do. An iguana, actually.”
“Well, I’m referring to the dog,” I snapped. “He’s been overmedicated. He was in a drug-induced stupor this afternoon.”
She stopped stroking Maggie and gave me her full attention. “How can that be? I gave his owner the right prescription for that size dog.”
“Yes, but I don’t think Ruby, his owner, can read. She got acepromazine confused with Clomicalm.”
“Oh, Jeez,” she muttered under her breath.
Maggie began to wail, having realized that the extra attention from Joanne Palmer was not getting her any nearer to her beloved owner. Joanne got out of the car and brushed past me without a word.
I trotted after her. Over the dog’s cries, I said, “I don’t want us to be adversaries. I’m hoping we can work together.”
She scoffed. “I have some samples inside my office. I’ll give you those, and if Ken finds that she needs more, he can bring her back to get her regular prescription refilled.”
“Refilled?”
“Yes. Maggie’s already on a regular dose of Clomicalm.” Dr. Palmer added under her breath, “Though she obviously hasn’t had any recently.”
“That’s odd. Ken didn’t mention anything about that to me.”
“Probably because he could tell you’re irrationally predisposed not to use it.”
“That’s not true. I haven’t said anything against the use of Clomicalm, which combined with behavior modification, is effective.” I fisted my hands and crossed my arms. My professional reputation was on the line here; a Boulder veterinarian bad-mouthing me could put me out of business faster than anything else. “Frankly, you seem ‘irrationally predisposed’ to dismiss me and what I do for a living.”
She frowned and searched through a large medicine cabinet, grabbing a small two-pack sample.
I went on, “The only difference between us in our feelings toward Clomicalm is that, as with my own medications, I try to use drugs only when absolutely necessary. I try hard to give behavior modification every reasonable chance to work before resorting to meds.”
Give the Dog a Bone Page 6