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Authors: Leslie O'Kane

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BOOK: Give the Dog a Bone
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Because this was a totally unfamiliar dog, I backed away; the expression “Let sleeping dogs lie” doesn’t come from nothing. “T-Rex! Good dog,” I called, trying to rouse him, to no avail.

Ruby came in, letting the screen door bang behind her. T-Rex opened his eyes for just a moment. Ruby clicked her tongue. “He just kind of picks his head up every now and then.”

There was no telltale whitening of the fur around his muzzle. “This looks like a fairly young dog. How old is he?”

“He’s six. Used to have so damned much energy that I couldn’t even control him. That’s when I started to see Dr. Palmer.”

“Uh, oh. You’ve been giving him a prescription tranquilizer, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, but Dr. Palmer said—”

I gritted my teeth. I needed to set aside the question, for now, of why the dog had apparently been sedated just because he was energetic, for God’s sake. “Your dog is overmedicated. Let me see your prescription bottle.” I made a quick calculation. T-Rex weighed about sixty pounds, and he was acting as though he’d been given at least fifty milligrams of acepromazine.

Ruby retrieved a nearly empty bottle of pills, saying, “See? I’m s’posed to give him two of these a day.”

I glanced at the label. “These aren’t tranquilizers, they’re Clomicalm, an antidepressant. Does T-Rex have a second prescription for acepromazine?” She was looking at me with such a blank expression on her face that I snapped, “A second bottle of pills. Just for when you’re taking him to the vet or someplace he’s afraid to go.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks turned red, betraying the fact that the implications of my question had dawned on her. She shrugged and said, “Yeah, but I . . . didn’t give him that. I gave him two of . . . whatever you just said it was.” She pointed at the bottle in my hand.

“Could I see the other prescription, too, please?”

She brought me that bottle. I sighed with relief to see that these were also 25 mg tablets. The 50 mg dose he’d obviously been given by mistake was not going to kill him. I looked again at the Clomicalm label. She was only supposed to give him one pill a day, not two.

I handed her back both bottles. Trying to be tactful, I said, “I don’t have my reading glasses on. Could you tell me what the labels say, please?”

She scoffed and put a hand on her hip. “ ’Scuse me?”

“I’m trying to find out what’s going on with your dog so that I can help him. I need to know how much medication you’ve been giving T-Rex and when.”

“I . . . do exactly what it says there on the labels. Maybe you should leave if you can’t help T-Rex anyways.”

“So you give him two pills of the tan-colored tablets with a morning treat every day?” I said, testing.

“Right.”

“That would mean T-Rex is receiving twice his prescribed medication.”

She furrowed her brow. “I jus’ meant that’s what I gave him this morning. ’Cuz giving him just one hasn’t made much difference.” She looked down at T-Rex. “You think my dog is gonna be all right?”

“I hope so. We have to watch for respiratory failure. But he seems to be breathing fine.”

She nodded and sighed in relief.

“I am not a veterinarian, Ruby, and can’t give medical prescriptions, but my advice would be to stop all medications to T-Rex immediately.”

“But then he’ll be . . . acting as out of control as that damned Maggie!”

“In my opinion, it’s very likely that he simply needs to be better trained. At this stage in my career, I can’t volunteer my services free of charge, but the Humane Society has obedience classes that are reasonably priced, and maybe they’ll provide scholarships, if money is an issue.”

“Ain’t it always?” she snarled.

I felt a bit trapped, wanting to do something to help T-Rex but knowing that his drug-ingestation was best left for a skilled veterinarian to handle. “Please take your dog to a vet.”

She set her sturdy chin and glared at me.

“I’ll be right next door if T-Rex’s symptoms change,” I murmured.

She nodded, but continued to glare at me.

Now that I’d ascertained T-Rex was not in immediate danger, I became aware of relentless barking from Maggie and saw the cause as soon as I left Ruby’s. A policeman, a tall man with a long, sharp nose, had finally arrived next door. Beside the officer, Ken stood anxiously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Meanwhile, Maggie was trying once again to break free of her leash, in Ken’s grasp. Either Ken or the officer had used a spade to remove a portion of the dirt covering the bones, and the officer was staring down at them with interest.

He nodded when I approached. “Evenin’. You must be the person who called this in, right?”

“Yes, and I—” I broke off when I spotted what appeared to be the skeletal remains of a hand. I’d been on the verge of apologizing for bringing him out here, most likely for nothing, but that was no longer necessary. I quickly looked away, feeling slightly nauseated.

“I swear, Allie,” Ken said, “I never noticed that hand in there. It’s Mary’s. I just know it.”

“Mary?” the officer gently prompted.

“My ex-wife. Mary Martin Culberson. She died four months ago.”

Now I was beginning to have some real doubts about Ken. “Your next door neighbor, Ruby, told me she was killed a year and a half ago. Was she mistaken?”

He shook his head. “That’s just when the accident took place. Mary was in a coma for over a year.”

“And you think these are her remains?” the officer asked. “Is her grave nearby?”

“No,” Ken said. “Baltimore.”

The officer glanced at me, then back at Ken and said, “I’m going to have to call in some cri— some investigators. They’ll probably need to take these bones to the lab . . . run some tests on them.” He pointed at Maggie, still barking incessantly. “Put your dog inside, sir, so we can talk more easily.”

“Can’t I keep her with me, so long as she’s on her leash?”

Her barking had long since surpassed my tolerance level. I clapped my hands twice to distract Maggie. Before she could resume barking, I said, “Good dog,” and gave her a tidbit. “Officer, this is a service dog, believe it or not, and the man needs her to be with him whenever possible.” Maggie stared at my pocket for more treats.

“How long will she stay quiet for?” Ken asked.

“A couple of seconds, or as long as you’ll give her treats in exchange for—”

Maggie started barking again.

“—not barking.”

Ken dragged his hand over his bald pate. “It’s okay. I’ll just lock her in the bedroom and shut the window. Much as she hates that.”

Once Ken and Maggie were inside the trailer, the officer indicated Ken with a motion of his eyes and asked me quietly, “Do you and this man know each other well?”

“We just met today, when he hired me to work with his dog. He seems to be delusional about his late wife’s death. Ex-wife’s death, rather. His therapist told me that he didn’t kill the woman, however.”

“What’s his therapist’s name?”

“Terry Thames, a psychologist. He has an office downtown.”

Ken returned, looking very agitated at the sound of Maggie’s muffled yet frantic barks from inside his home. The policeman gestured at the bones. “Anyone touch these?”

“No, sir,” Ken responded, squaring his shoulders to take on the bearing of an army private to his captain. “Just Maggie.”

“Can I speak to her?”

“You just had me put her in the house!”

“Maggie’s the dog,” I said, suppressing nervous laughter.

“Did the dog dig them up from your property here?”

“No, sir. She keeps finding them someplace and hauling ’em home.”

“It’s important that we find out where that is.”

“She had a bone with her when she was coming from that direction,” I said, pointing toward the road south of the trailer park.

“There’s some heavy equipment out that way, near the road. Right in front of the clubhouse,” Ken said. “I think they been laying pipes down for some new homes.”

“When did she first start collecting these?” the officer asked, indicating the bones with a slight motion of his head.

Ken shrugged. “A week . . . or two or three ago, I guess. And I just . . . never looked at them. It was Allie here who said they might be human.”

The officer asked Ken to show him where his phone was and asked me to remain outside. I sat down on the step and waited. Several minutes elapsed, and I suspected that the officer was questioning Ken. A second patrol car pulled up, and the first officer emerged from Ken’s trailer to speak with him.

By now both Ruby, her square jaw set in a frown, and Yolanda, peering out from her thick lenses, were standing by the side of the road. “What’s going on?” Ruby called.

“Nothing to worry about, ma’am,” the first officer called back.

After some discussion, the newly arrived officer asked Ken to show him where this “heavy equipment” was located, and the two of them headed out, Maggie once again barking vociferously from inside the trailer. Meanwhile, the first officer asked me to sit in his patrol car with him “for some privacy,” and to tell him what I knew about Ken Culberson.

I recounted my initial meeting with Ken as best I could, my conversation with Terry Thames, and how Maggie had run off and then returned with the suspicious bone. I deliberately, however, left out my conversation with Ruby regarding her suspicions about Ken.

Ken was wide-eyed and sweating profusely by the time he and the officer returned to his property. Having seen them coming down the street, the first policeman and I got out of the car. Ken brushed right past us and said, “I gotta go tell Maggie I’m back.”

“We’ll come with you,” said the officer who’d accompanied him to the construction site. While Ken led the way into his home, the officer said quietly to the other, “Something’s not right. There’s another bone there, but it hasn’t got a speck of dirt on it. It’s just lying out in plain sight, no footprints or marks anywhere near. Looks like someone tossed it there.”

Ken had already closed himself in the back room with Maggie. The first officer called, “You all right in there, Mr. Culberson?” His hand was resting on the holster of his gun as he asked.

Ken, Maggie in tow, emerged. “I’m fine, but I gotta ask you to witness some paperwork for me.”

“ ’Scuse me?”

“Made some changes to my will, and I need someone to witness me signing ’em, just in case I’m . . . tied up for a while.”

Changes to his will?

The policemen looked at each other. “I . . . guess so,” one replied.

Maggie, meanwhile, had resumed barking at the two officers. Over the noise, I asked, “Ken, you’re not feeling . . . in fear for your life for any reason, are you?”

“Naw, I been needin’ to take care a this for a while now, ’n’ don’t get many visitors for official witnesses.” He looked at Maggie, once again his eyes reminding me for all the world of a sad Saint Bernard’s. “Allie, can you try ’n’ do something to help calm her down?”

“Sure thing.” I clapped my hands and called, “Maggie, come.” Not wanting to face Ruby and Yolanda outside, I took Maggie into the kitchen and worked with the clicker. Remarkably, really, she instantly became so engaged in the game of getting treats for tricks that she ignored her owner and the two officers in the other room. But my thoughts were only partially occupied with the dog; I was more concerned with Ken. I suspected that he was scared he was not only about to be arrested, but that he would be incarcerated for a long time. Surely, though, he had nothing to do with the bones in his yard, and the police would let him go.

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.”

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