Canine Christmas

by Jeffrey Marks (Ed)

  He was an agreeable sort. “The Turkey Safe House, you mean,” he said in answer to my inquiry. “Yes ma'am. I know it well. Look for a narrow ranch road, with a small sign. Drive slowly, or you'll miss it again. Tell Stella I'll be along later for that Christmas dinner she promised.” He chuckled. “She tells me her turkey tofu recipe tastes just great, and I'll never be able to tell the difference between that and the real thing.” He cocked his head toward his car. “Better not let her know I brought along a roast beef sandwich just in case.”

  I doubled back until I came to a turnoff marked by an arrow and a small wooden sign with the words turkey safe house. farm animal haven hand-painted in black. A few miles farther along the dusty unpaved road I found what I was looking for. It was just as the deputy had described: a farmhouse, a corral, and a big red barn situated at the top of a small rise. I parked in the shade of a large oak at the foot of the hill, alongside an old brown Pinto, its windshield covered with dust and bugs. A faded bumper sticker admonished, if you love animals don't eat them. I had found Mindy.

  Through the lowered front window I could see a cat carrier on the passenger seat. My “Hallo, Smudge,” was answered with a plaintive meow, making me regret having disturbed him. A large metal crate was wedged onto the backseat, a few white feathers the only evidence that it might have contained the turkeys.

  There was no sign of the boyfriend's Dodge van. Like me, he may have missed the turning, possibly driving even farther out of his way than I had.

  As I walked up the grassy dandelion-spotted hill, the leashed dogs bounding along beside me, several turkeys came out to greet us, making sharp, shrill chirping noises. Other animals came into view—goats, chickens, a cow—but turkeys dominated the scene. The barnyard smell, enhanced by the warm sunshine, was not offensive, rather it was almost comforting, evocative as it was of a more peaceful, simpler way of life.

  Sitting on the grass in front of the barn were two women, one probably in her twenties, the other a comfortable-looking mid-forties. Between them sat two plump, white turkeys.

  My guess that I had found Mindy was quickly confirmed as Bear nearly pulled me off my feet in his effort to reach her.

  She put out her arms for him. “Bear? How did you get here?” Her thin cotton dress looked out of place for the time of year, and the wrinkled yellow ribbon holding her short blond hair away from her face could have done with a good ironing.

  “Mindy Rogers?” I asked.

  She looked up from petting Bear, surprise on her face.

  I introduced myself. “Delilah Doolittle. You left a message on my machine. It's taken me a while to track you down.”

  “You never answered, and I got desperate.” She had obviously been unclear as to what exactly it is that a pet detective does. “I thought you were a real private detective who specialized in animal cases, but Stella here,” she indicated the older woman, “has been telling me that you look for lost pets.”

  “Well, since I'm here,” I said, sitting down alongside them, “why don't you tell me what the problem is. Maybe I can still help.”

  Stella offered some refreshment, and while she went back to the house Mindy recounted her story. She had been living with her boyfriend, Steve, on a small ranch they rented in the Bakersfield area. Unemployed and short of cash, he had gotten mixed up with a bad crowd and had started on a series of petty thefts. Beginning in a small way with shoplifting and stealing from unlocked cars, they gradually became bolder and turned to breaking and entering.

  “I tried to get him to stop,” Mindy said, her eyes filling with tears. “But he'd started to gamble, and there was no other way to pay his debts.”

  Eventually, looking for a bigger haul, Steve and his friends had broken into a jewelry store. They had disposed of most of the loot at a swap meet, but had been unable to find a ready buyer for some loose diamonds.

  Stella returned carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and three glasses. While she poured the drinks, Mindy continued her story.

  “So Steve hid the diamonds in one of the feed bins in the turkey coop,” said Mindy, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “But when he went to get them later, all he could find was the torn cloth bag they'd been in.

  “He was so mad. He said the turkeys must have swallowed them along with their food, and he threatened to kill them to get the diamonds out of their gizzards.”

  At my expression of surprise that the turkeys would still be alive if they'd ingested the gems, Stella explained, “No harm done. Birds need gravel in their gizzards to help grind the food. Diamonds are real hard, which makes them ideal for the purpose. They won't need to replace their grit for quite some time.”

  Mindy set down her lemonade glass and picked up one of the turkeys, cradling it in her lap and scratching its breast. The bird closed its eyes in what one could only assume was turkey bliss.

  “I've had Daisy and Tulip since they were chicks,” she said. “They're my pets. They were never intended for slaughter.”

  She had run away Christmas Eve, she said, intending to seek refuge with friends in San Diego.

  “Along the way, I realized Steve was following me. I couldn't call the police. I was afraid that if they found out about the diamonds, they would confiscate Daisy and Tulip. That's why I called you. When you didn't answer, I called Stella.”

  Stella took up the story. “It was important to get the birds off the road, out of harm's way. Thanksgiving is the worst time of the year for turkeys, but Christmas runs it a close second. When Mindy called I told her to bring Daisy and Tulip here where they'll be safe to live out their lives in peace. No one will be able to distinguish one from another once they join the flock.”

  I said how much I admired her dedication to an apparently lost cause.

  She smiled. “We do have our supporters. But it's a hand-to-mouth existence. I never know where the next penny's coming from.”

  Mindy stiffened. Shading her eyes against the sun, she watched as a gray Dodge van approached and pulled into the parking lot alongside the Pinto.

  “It's Steve,” she said. “He mustn't find us here.”

  “It's too late for that,” I said. “He's already seen your car. We'll just have to try to explain things to him.”

  But my trust in sweet reason was short-lived as I saw Steve reach back into the van and slip a handgun into his waistband before heading up the hill.

  “Quick,” I said. “Into the barn.”

  They needed no second telling as I hustled Mindy, Stella, Watson and Bear, Tulip and Daisy, out of sight, privately thinking that if worse came to worst, we might just have to hand over the turkeys. I was about to prepare Mindy for that possibility when a pistol shot rang out.

  Mindy screamed. “He's going to kill us.”

  “No he's not,” I said with more conviction than I actually felt, thinking that Daisy and Tulip might not be the only casualties of the day.

  Through a crack in the barn door I watched Steve approach, firing the pistol as he came and shouting, “Come on out, Mindy. I know you're in there.”

  I had to think quickly. “Do as I say,” I told Mindy and Stella. “Keep back as far out of sight as you can, and take the turkeys with you. Watson and Bear will stay with me.”

  I removed the dogs' leashes and held Bear loosely by the collar with one hand, while keeping a firmer grip on Watson with the other. She would be held in reserve, ready to run interference if necessary.

  “Bear,” I told the furry ruffian, “we're counting on you.”

  Steve was getting closer. Soon his bulk blocked daylight from the crack in the door. My heart pounding, I moved farther along the barn wall.

  Suddenly the door was thrown open, and Steve's tall body filled the entrance.

  I had only a few seconds to act before his eyes adjusted to the gloomy barn after the brilliant sunshine.

  “Now, Bear,” I whispered. “Go!”

  Bear leapt forward in a rush and, displaying the same enthusiasm with which
he had greeted me back at the motel, pinned Steve against the door.

  The element of surprise was on our side. Caught offbalance Steve dropped the gun, at which point, in a remarkable display of teamwork, Watson leaped forward and lay down with her front feet on the gun, her teeth bared in a most unbecoming snarl, just as she'd learned at guard dog school.

  “Stay, Bear,” I ordered, as Steve, in language that I would never repeat, demanded that I call the dog off.

  “Mindy, you stay back there,” I shouted. “Stella, go and call the sheriff.”

  But on looking through the open door I breathed a sigh of relief. “Never mind. Here's the deputy. Tell him he's got some business to take care of before he gets his Christmas dinner.”

  Watson and Bear remained at their posts until Steve was in handcuffs and the deputy's backup was on the way.

  Later, amid more tears, Mindy said her goodbyes to Tulip and Daisy. And as we headed down the hill to our cars I called back to Stella: “Keep a close eye on their droppings for the next few weeks. You might just come across a big payoff. The reward ought to keep this place going for quite a while.”

  The Reunion

  Lillian M. Roberts

  LILLIAN M. ROBERTS writes the Andi Pauling, DVM, series of veterinary mysteries. (The series debut—Riding for a Fall—was shortlisted for an Agatha Award.) Ms. Roberts lives in Palm Springs, California, with three cats, two parrots, and a very tolerant mastiff named Moby. Her short story “Manor Beast” appeared in the Canine Crimes anthology.

  Christmas in Palm Springs is a bit of a letdown.

  Like most people who live here, I am from Elsewhere. In my case, Elsewhere means the Midwest, but the specifics don't really matter. The point is, almost every Elsewhere in this country is different from Palm Springs: snow country, ice, power failures, studded tires, sand and rust damage to the old cars—good reasons to come to California, of course. But they are the same reasons why, for a few weeks of every year, I contemplate going back.

  On this particular December twenty-first, it was so hot even the plastic snow that merchants sprayed onto their display windows was melting. This was unusual. Most years it's chilly. One can at least gaze up at Mount San Jacinto and see snow. Those who are so inclined can even take a short tram ride to its top and toss a snowball or two. The serious will cross-country ski, though I've never tried it myself. But I digress.

  There it was, four days till the big day. The usual population exchange was occurring. Our boarding kennel was full of dogs and cats and birds, along with two ferrets and an iguana, whose owners had ventured north for the season. A similar number of tourists had descended into town, so the shops were full to capacity and the shelves more or less barren by now. I'd done the usual things—called my pop in St. Louis, visited the local wildlife park to see its light show, sat through an amateur production of The Nutcracker, and hosted a buffet and gift exchange party for the staff. But I just wasn't into it. The constant noise of carols (“Winter Wonderland”? “Frosty the Snowman”? Oh, please!) was as irritating as fingernails on a chalkboard. The traditional holiday slow period at the clinic did nothing to help. Signing health certificates so others could take their pets with them to visit family in Colorado and Oregon didn't exactly improve my mood.

  “I should have gone to visit Pop,” I said to Trinka, over coffee in our shared office. That's Trinka Romanescu, DVM, my partner at Dr. Doolittle's Pet Care Center.

  Trinka, who was drinking water from a plastic bottle (even the water is from Elsewhere), shrugged. “I don't see what the big deal is. It's not like you're religious or anything.”

  Trinka trots out her half-Jewish heritage when she wants to disparage some Anglo–European tradition.

  “You'd get it if you wanted to,” I said irritably. “Just open your eyes. It's a feeling. A whole season. It's magical! It's a time to spend with family. Time to do good deeds!”

  “If you ask me, it's the worst time of year. Everyone's on edge. We're broke. No one brings their pets in to the vet this time of year. Those who do come in whine about how we're depriving them of Christmas by expecting to get paid—like it's my fault they let Fluffy out and he got run over!”

  I had to smile, because I knew the case she was talking about. But under the smile was a stubborn determination not to let her be right. In most things, Trinka was the pragmatist, the optimist. Despite her protestations, I could see that the mood was affecting her, too. “At least you get to visit your brother and his family in San Diego.”

  “If it bugs you so much, why don't you go out and do some charity work?”

  Why, indeed. How does one go about volunteering at such a late date?

  “Merry Christmas, everyone!” Marie Coulson bustled into the room, carrying a plate piled high with homebaked cookies, bars, and sweets all decorated with red and green icing or sprinkles. They had been arranged with obvious care on the tray before the whole thing was swathed in plastic wrap.

  Marie was hard to explain. She had brought her ancient cat, Callie, in for its final visit about a month earlier. We knew her husband had died a year or so before that, and she had no children. Still, even while in mourning her basic cheerfulness showed through. Now, with her only pet gone, I fully expected her to show up with a new cat. She had showed up, all right—but as a kind of hospital volunteer, visiting the boarded animals with treats and pats, pitching in to clean a cage or answer a phone as needed. She said it was out of gratitude for our good care of Callie, but we had done nothing special for the cat and had charged her our usual fees. I suspected she simply needed someone to take care of.

  I was reaching for my second cookie, tree-shaped with green sugar and tiny gumdrop ornaments, when Sheila buzzed us on the intercom. “Doctor?” she said, not specifying which of us. “Could you guys, like, come up here? I think you might have a patient.”

  Trinka and I exchanged glances. We both went.

  The “patient” was a medium-sized terrier. A gray-and-brown mutt with long wiry hair that would have looked unkempt even when clean and brushed. He was neither at the moment, just shaggy and tangled, with foxtails and bits of grass and sand and even gravel mixed into his coat. To describe him as forlorn would have been an understatement—his tail hung limply, his body sagged, his head lowered dejectedly.

  Despite all this, his anxious eyes regarded us with something akin to hope. At least until recently, he had had reason to expect kindness from these godlike beings who walked upright.

  Trinka and I moved to where he stood in the middle of the floor, instinctively going over him.

  “He's so thin!” Trinka said. (Trinka should know— she errs on the scrawny side herself.)

  “Where's his owner?” I asked, for the little dog was unaccompanied.

  Sheila shrugged. “He just showed up. I heard a scratching, looked up, and there he was, outside the door.”

  “No collar,” I pointed out. But there was an indentation where the hair was worn short around his neck.

  “Dumped,” Trinka decided. Every so often someone would leave a dog or a box of kittens in the parking lot and drive away. Once, Sheila had gotten a license plate number and the creep was arrested and fined, but that was small comfort.

  “Maybe so, but not today. He's been on his own for a while,” I said. “His toenails are worn to the quick.”

  Sheila said, “Maybe he used to be a patient and recognized the building.”

  “Poor little guy,” Trinka said, scratching him behind the ears. “Most of our patients don't think of us as their saviors, you know.”

  She was right about that; a lot of animals associated us with shots and thermometers. But they might also think of it as a place their owner might turn up.

  “Well, let's get him some food and water and see what we can do for him.”

  Marie was already seeing to it.

  He drank a whole bowl of water, wolfed down a can of food, then drank some more water. We offered him a blanket in a cage, and he settled down with an
audible sigh. He looked up at us once, wagged his tail twice, then rolled onto his side and was instantly asleep.

  Trinka and I exchanged apprehensive glances. “What do you think?” I asked, recalling past strays abandoned on our doorstep. Kittens and puppies we could usually find homes for—which, of course, was why people dumped them here. A young, healthy dog was more challenging but could often be adopted. But the older animals …

  “Got room for another one?” she said.

  “I've got the legal limit.” Four dogs. Plus six cats I figure no one had to know about. “It's your turn.”

  She shook her head. “Ajax would eat him for lunch.” Her old white shepherd didn't tolerate interlopers.

  We sighed in unison. I noticed Trinka was gazing speculatively at Marie, as I was. But Marie just said, “The poor little darling. I wonder how he knew to come here?”

  “I'll at least scan him, what the heck.”

  “Oh, right … he looks like someone would spend the money for a chip,” Trinka said cynically. For several years the clinic had offered permanent microchip implantation, a device the size of a grain of rice, injected under the skin. It could be detected at any shelter should the pet turn up lost. But those who sprang for the cost took better care of their pets than this.

  However, when I ran the scanner over his back, it beeped and a number came up.

  “Hey! Look at this!” I copied the number onto a sticky-note and took it up front. Before calling the registry, I decided to check our computer's database to see if it was one of ours. It was.

  “I don't remember this dog,” I said.

  Trinka just shrugged. Trinka had been with the practice a little under two years. The implantation date was nearly three years earlier, and we hadn't seen the dog since. Probably the owner had absentmindedly checked the “yes” box on an anesthesia release and forgotten about it. That didn't mean he would want the dog back now, but at least we could let someone know we had the dog—in case his stray status was in fact accidental.

  I picked up the phone and dialed. As it rang I became conscious of the hopeful expressions of the people in the small crowd gathered around me. Didi, our technician, had returned from lunch and been apprised of the situation, so there were five of us waiting to see who would answer.