CONTENTS
PROLOGUE. A Perfect Moment
First to Fall
Dog Days
Tumbling Slowly
Money and Fame
Life is Short, Play With Your Dog
Mystery Solved
The Dead of Winter
Back to Borneo
A Cold Day in Hell
No Whining on the Yacht
Out of the Mouths of Babes
A Line in the Sand
A Perfect Moment
Scent Marking
Dog Gone
Uneventful Moments
References
From the Author
About the Author
Decoded Dog
Copyright ©2019 by Dianne Janczewski
Cover and internal design images created by Christopher Matten, Copyright ©2019 by Christopher Matten with exclusive use granted to Dianne Janczewski and himself
eBook: ISBN 978-0-578-44028-6
Print: ISBN 978-0-578-41765-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019900370
Quo Vadis Publishing 1914991
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my family.
To my parents who inspired me to be ethical, hardworking, and empathetic, and my siblings who challenge me to be as productive as they are.
To my daughters, Roxanne and Andrea, who provided insight on the thoughts and speak of the new generation, and who keep me focused on what’s important.
To my husband Wayne, who encouraged me to continue to work on this book, despite long gaps in motivation; who always made me feel like it was of course going to get finished; and who shares my days, my nights, and my dreams. Thank you for learning to love poodles, and for loving me always.
And to the dogs in my life, past, present, and future, for they complete my family.
PROLOGUE: A PERFECT MOMENT
The softness of her paws on the hardwood floors ruffles the silence of the night. I know it’s her by the distinct sound of her gait, and because for thirteen years, this magnificent creature has been my constant companion, my heart-dog. Ania stops at the end of the hall and lifts her head, scanning the living-room for me, then continues her journey. She gently places her front feet on the couch. I lean forward and offer my cheek. She snuffles, content, and climbs up next to me, collecting her legs around her, morphing into a warm, fuzzy ball. But before she tucks in her muzzle like a snow goose in a winter storm, she looks back at me and asks with her big brown eyes, "You okay?” I rest my hand on her, absorbing the calm she radiates. She sighs, curls in, and falls sleep.
I exhale and settle into this perfect moment.
I close my eyes. A kaleidoscope of thoughts spin around in my head creating fleeting patterns, but leaving unanswered questions. None of them seem the right fit. Where is this coming from and how can it be stopped?
Dogs are dying. By the thousands. And no one has figured out why.
FIRST TO FALL
SIX MONTHS AGO.
Like those first few leaves that floated to the ground unnoticed when the season quietly phased into the next, the first dogs fell in late summer. A Pekingese—it was suspected she overheated on the return trip from a local dog show. All attempts to rehydrate her failed. Two weeks later, several hundred miles up the coast, an Irish setter collapsed a few days after earning her final major points at a show sponsored by the Hunt Club. She wasn’t even two years old. A leaf here, a leaf there, so many still brilliantly green clinging to the trees. Each one that fell an isolated death of no collective consequence.
The late August air was still hot and thick. Ania and Sofie told me that my homecoming was an occasion to be celebrated, as they showered me with soggy, stuffed-animal gifts. They reminded me to value the return of a pack member.
I passed by the family room and set the groceries on the kitchen counter.
“How was your day?” My hopeful voice added to the noise of the television.
One week until school started. Relief from the boredom and swelter of summer was imminent. Somewhere along the timeline of growing up, a moment slipped by when my children stopped greeting me with the enthusiasm of the dogs.
From the amorphous pile on the couch that resembled my sixteen-year-old daughter Tess, words emerged. “Mama, did you see that story on the news?”
“About the dogs? Yes, I heard it on the radio. Really sad. You’re watching the news?”
“Just for a minute. They were showing a picture of a cute dog so I stopped to see it.”
“Well, that’s a start for becoming worldly. What are they saying now, about the dogs?”
“They said that nine dogs that were at the Balistar Dog Show in New York this weekend died and another two are sick and since they were all at the same dog show they think that someone poisoned them.”
“That’s not surprising.”
“Mom! That’s mean.”
“I’m not being mean, it’s just an unfortunate reality. There have been incidents like that at other dog shows, though I don’t think it has ever involved this many dogs all at once.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. There’s a pretty well-known case of poisoning of an Akita and another dog—I can’t remember the breed—at a benched show like Balistar. We went to one like that. Remember? Where all the dogs have to stay in the holding area until the end of the day?”
“Uh-huh, it was kinda cool to see all the dogs up close, especially those giant mastiffs. Their heads were bigger than a basketball.”
“I know, and those naked Chinese crested dogs that needed sweaters! But since all those dogs are right there within everyone’s reach, I suppose it would be possible for someone to easily slip one a poisoned treat.”
“Who would do that?”
“Unfortunately, there are a lot of people who are against the world of dog breeding and showing, who think that animals shouldn’t be bred for our entertainment and comfort, and are willing to sacrifice a few to spotlight how bad that world can be for dogs. Or maybe it was someone who didn’t want their dog to lose."
“That’s so wrong.”
“Yes, it is.”
“They said that they’re bringing in the FBI. They said that some of the dogs are worth a hundred thousand dollars!”
“I guess the FBI has to get involved when there’s that much money at stake. I think they also get involved when a crime crosses state lines. If the dogs are travelling for the shows, that would be the case. Balistar is a huge show, so they come in from all over the world.”
“How can a dog be worth that much? Is that a lot of money?”
“Yes, dear, it is. One hundred dollars is a lot of money. The fact that you don’t seem to register that when we’re at the mall confirms my failure as a mother. So, I guess it doesn’t surprise me that you don’t know if a hundred thousand dollars is a lot. But it is. You could buy several cars, fill a house with furniture, or maybe buy a cabin in the woods with that.”
“Or a very expensive dog.”
“Well, I don’t think many people would sell theirs when they reach that level. Champions can bring in a lot of money and make a name for their owners, so owners and even sponsors will invest a lot in their champions for professional handlers, adverti
sements in the major dog world magazines, stuff like that.”
“Every show dog’s dream. To be on the cover of a magazine,” she crooned as she surfed the channels.
“Sounds kinda silly I guess, but it’s important to have your dog seen if you want it to win. By the time a dog makes it to a show like Balistar or Westminster, they’ve been on the cover of a lot of magazines, and seen by so many of the judges. They’re so well-known that there’s a huge buzz about them at the show, and they’re already favored to win.”
“So it’s rigged.”
“No, not rigged, just an example of good marketing. At the big shows, judges see hundreds of dogs. It helps to know which ones to concentrate on since they have consistently been placed at the top. But even with all the money invested, a dark horse will occasionally win.” I chuckled. I thought I was witty.
“Stop, please.”
“Thank you. Besides, not every breeder aims for those shows. Most just love their breed and want to produce beautiful examples of that breed, so they participate in local and regional shows –” And she’s texting. “I’ve lost you, haven’t I?” I said
“Yup.”
I couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that there might be some new dog disease on the rise. I researched dog diseases, so I knew the complexities of trying to trace the origins and find a cure. In a lot of ways it would be easier to track some crazy person targeting dog shows. And the truth of the matter is, there were a lot of people who disdained dog shows—and dog breeding in general —so poisoning was a possibility.
We have men’s pride to thank for creating the modern dog show in the mid-1800s; men who bred for the best hunting dogs, designed to serve with webbed feet, strong chests, muscular legs, and even coats of hair instead of fur. I could picture them standing on a foggy hill in England’s countryside, guns at rest, barking dogs at the ready to chase a terrified fox. “That’s a fine hound you’ve got there, is that from Sir Edmund’s sire?” said one English chap to another. “She is at that. Yours too is rather impressive. What say we have a bit of friendly competition to see whose is the top dog?” Not many years later, fog replaced by billows of cigar smoke in the Westminster Hotel in New York, the Westminster Dog Show was conceived. It continues today, having the distinction of being the second longest running sporting event in the U.S., beat out by only a year by the Kentucky Derby. No different than tennis or NASCAR, dog showing and breeding is a sport, a hobby, a love, with a thriving industry of clubs and events to occupy the enthusiast and captivate the spectator—and draw the ire of detractors.
“What about cats?” Tess spoke again, engaging in a rare, two-part conversation.
“What about cats?” Hope rose in my voice but I stifled it. Teenagers can smell enthusiasm and they reject it as vehemently as any attempt to wave goodbye in front of the school.
“They must have shows too.”
“Oh dear Lord, have you ever seen one?’’
“Obviously not, if I just asked you if they have them.”
“You are merciless. Yes, they have them, but I’ve only seen a few on TV, and from what I have seen, they are hysterical! They fluff up the cats, then pick them up over their heads and parade them around the room, hoping that the cat won’t decide it’s had enough and take off! In one show I saw, they had to chase an escapee all over the building. It was quite a spectacle, particularly with the long-haired cats that are fluffed up so much you can’t even see their faces.”
“Mom, really? As someone who owns poodles, don’t you think it ironic that you’re making fun?”
“Ah, sarcasm and irony being your best skills, I guess you recognize that.” She confirmed my statement with another of her well-honed talents, the teenaged eye roll. “Okay, you have a good point. The parade of poofed out Poodles, Pekingese, and Pyrenees probably proves your point!”
“Oh God, Mom, please stop.”
I stared at the bags on the counter dreading the eminent D-word, dinner. I used to love to create an elaborate meal, like conducting a fun science experiment you could eat, but dinner became a chore. I wondered what happened to the Claire who used to be mildly amusing, but now parented by sarcasm. I used to be spontaneous, now I was over-scheduled and harried. I used to love to feel. I read poetry and was never without music playing in the background to nourish my soul. My emotions were exposed, on the surface. Somewhere along the way I traded poetry for newspaper headlines, and melody for TV chatter. It became easier to keep all of the adult balls in the air if they were smoothed down with no raw edges.
“You just don’t understand!” was a common retort of my children. To them I was decisive, responsible, dogmatic, and unemotional. I was the mom who knew where every missing object was and dutifully cycled laundry, meals, and other acts of love. To others I was the lab director who orchestrated novel research and shaped a new generation of scientists, and to Chris, a wife, a solid partner in a marriage.
But that is not how I saw myself. I saw myself as adapted. I was still passionate, loving, and vulnerable, maybe even more empathetic than when I was younger, but it was all encased in a hard outer shell.
“Settle down,” I’ve told my daughters many times. “It’s not such a big deal.” “Why do you let that bother you?” Each time those words came out of my mouth, I knew I was shaping the same contained future for them.
I was glued to the news for the next few days, watching as reports came in, hoping that the dog deaths were isolated to the Balistar show. Each story tore a bigger hole in my heart and made me afraid that this was only the beginning. The first was a Labrador named Champion Sterling Heathcliff, aka “Boingo,” from Texas. His owner, a big burly guy everyone called Chuck, said he raised him from a pup and gave him the call name Boingo because he looked like he had springs in his feet when he jumped over obstacles in agility trials. Chuck sat on a dock, feet hanging over the side, talking to the reporter. “His favorite thing to do was dock diving,” he said. “Man, that dog could fly. I’ve had a lot of dogs in my life, but this one, Boingo . . . he was . . .” He could barely continue. “He was somethin’ special.” His pain was all too familiar to me, having lost special ones, and knowing that someday Ania would leave me too.
A day later, Boingo’s story was followed by one from Kelsie, a teenaged girl who competed as a junior handler from Ohio, with her Schipperke. “I was so excited to make the cut for Balistar,” she said, clearly trying to remain stoic. “Phoenix was the first dog my parents let me raise and show completely by myself.” Video clips rolled of the two of them from competitions leading up to Balistar, winning title after title, girl and dog moving as one. Kelsie’s mom continued, “Phoenix began vomiting on the trip home from the show in New York, and within hours of getting him to our vet, he died in Kelsie’s arms.” Her daughter buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, sobbing. I don’t know what was more awful, the loss of their dog, or making the kid sit for the interview.
As the stories continued to surface each day, the mainstream media and even the late-night talk show hosts didn’t dare make light of the situation for fear of reprisal from millions of dog owners. But there are always detractors, and online blogs, Twitter, and less diplomatic “news” venues tried to implicate the show dog world, focusing on lavish lifestyles that support the luxury of breeding one hundred thousand-dollar dogs. They had a field day with a beautiful brindle-colored Scottish terrier named Sebastian, whose owner Evelyn raised her dogs on a sprawling New Hampshire estate. While the national media reports angled toward sympathy for her loss, stories posted to Facebook and other social media turned on her. Lead-in footage on her story showed rolling landscapes of bright green, neatly framed in white board fencing that complemented the Dearborn estate house like Mikimoto pearls adorning a plunging neckline. But once the cameras entered her home they mocked her, focusing on the thick mascara running down her face, as she sat on the sofa, surrounded by her remaining dogs perched on fringed pillows. “He was one of my most successful studs” she blub
bered, as she stroked a prized female with aged shaky hands weighted by excessive jewelry.
“Well, I can see why it’s hard for her to find a good stud!” the commentator snickered.
“Ah but she must be able to find one in that expensive stable of hers!” the other pseudo-reporter responded.
“That’s so wrong,” my younger daughter Diana said as we sat together at my computer looking for the latest on the dogs, though I wasn’t sure if she grasped the double meaning.
“Yes, pretty cruel,” I said, trying to scroll past the other sensationalized reports. “I’m sure a lot of people found that funny, but she lost a dog she obviously adored.” That was enough for me to reach for the Kleenex and pass the box. “How about we look at a more reputable site for information?”
It was in our search that we stumbled on the details of the Pekingese that died two weeks earlier than the Balistar dogs. “He was like one of those trendy furry balls that girls hang from their purse,” his owner Lisa described him, with a faint, melancholy smile, “a round ball of fluff with a cute nose.”
Her eight-year-old son jumped in, “And Oscar helped keep the house clean too! He collected anything around the house that wasn’t put away and hid it under Mom’s bed. If you were missing a sock or a pair of shorts, all you had to do was look in his pile.” Now in tears, Lisa wrapped her arms around her son. “There’s an emptiness in our house now,” she said.
“And a mess,” her son added.
Oscar’s death would not have even made the news, except that he was a celebrity at The Grinder coffee shop. But the description of how he died seemed to me to be too similar to the others to be a coincidence. He was from the same town as Phoenix.
By the end of the week, twelve more dogs that had attended Balistar had died upon returning home. Each brought a story of careful breeding, excitement, triumph, and utter despair punctuated with a final framed picture of a lost love.
Beyond the sadness of the loss, I was focused on the cause. Was it something toxic in the dog food? Owners are very particular about what they feed their dogs, and there didn’t seem to be any consistency in diet based on stories in the news.
Decoded Dog Page 1