Susan Conant - Gone to the Dogs

FETCH THE MURDER WEAPON

The man pivoted slowly, his hands still primly and dutifully fixed behind his back. Clasped between them was a large hypodermic syringe. In the near darkness, I managed to tie Kimis leash tightly to the stair rail. At my side, Rowdy waited for the first command in this interesting new obedience event.

Rowdy and I moved forward into the dim light of the hallway. I unhooked his leash, bent down a little, held my left forearm and hand parallel to his head, and pointed directly at the syringe. If the man saw Rowdy coming? If Rowdy grasped the needle by the sharp, deadly point?

Suddenly, I moved my hand forward and said firmly, Rowdy, take it!

He was primed for the ring. He shot forward and bounded into the little room, opened his jaws, and leapt.

By the author of:

PAWS BEFORE DYING
A BITE OF DEATH
DEAD AND DOGGONE
A NEW LEASH ON DEATH
BLOODLINES
RUFFLY SPEAKING
BLACK RIBBON
STUD RITES
ANIMAL APPETITE
THE BARKER STREET REGULARS
EVIL BREEDING
CREATURE DISCOMFORTS

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

GONE TO THE DOGS
A Bantam Crime Line Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Doubleday edition published July 1992
Bantam edition / December 1992

CRIME LINE and the portrayal of a boxed cl are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Copyright 1992 by Susan Conant.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 91-41171.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address:
Bantam Books.

eISBN: 978-0-307-78546-6

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words Bantam Books and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, New York, New York.

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In August of 1990, Janelle Fowlds and her associates at the all-volunteer Becker County Humane Society participated in a raid on a puppy mill near Detroit Lakes, Minnesota. Their efforts brought an end to the neglect, abuse, and suffering of more than a hundred Alaskan malamutes, golden retrievers, Norwegian elkhounds, Samoyeds, Siberian huskies, and dogs of numerous other breeds. For many months after the raid, Janelle Fowlds continued to work for the well-being of the rescued dogs and puppies. With thanks from the Alaskan Malamute Protection League as well as from the author, this book is dedicated to Janelle.

For help with this book, I want to thank Barbara Beckedorff, Laurel Morrissette, Gail and Rick Skoglund, Joel Woolfson, D.V.M., and my beloved companions, Frostfield Arctic Natasha, C.D., T.T. and Frostfield Firestars Kobuk.

If your name is Holly Winter, Yuletide can be a real bitch. When I say bitch, I know what Im talking about. I earn my living in the world of dogs. In the pages of Dogs Life magazine, including the pages occupied by my column, bitch is a neutral word for female dog, and when I tell you that I have two Alaskan malamutes, Rowdy and Kimi, a dog and bitch, Im not swearing. But Holly Winter? In December?

I make the best of it. Take Christmas cards. If your name sounds like an ecumenical version of Merry Christmas, you dont have to wish anyone Seasons Greetings, Happy Holidays, or Health and Happiness Now and in the Coming Year. You just sign in the white space below the picture of your spectacular dogs. In this years picture, the best ever, Rowdy and Kimi are wearing snazzy red harnesses, and theyre pulling their sled across a field of snow. The sled is piled with red-blanket stand-ins for bags of toys. The dogs plumy white tails are waving over their backs, and their big red tongues are hanging out of their eager, grinning faces. Festive and woofy.

In case you wondered, I would like to add that Rowdy and Kimi are certainly not wearing those humiliatingly stupid reindeer-antler headbands you can order from R.C. Steele, New England Serum, J-B, and the other discount pet-supply houses. My picture doesnt reveal the detail, but the dogs have on Velcro-fastened red velvet bow-tie collars that I copied from the ones in the R.C. Steele catalog. The originals cost about twelve dollars apiece, and I whipped up Rowdy and Kimis for practically nothing. The R.C. Steele version, though, is presumably durable. My homemade collars were starting to fray by mid-December, when the dogs had worn their finery only twice, once for the Christmas card photo and once for pictures with Santa. And, no, I did not drag my dogs to some shopping mall to wait in line with the kiddies. The occasion, it so happens, was a benefit for the Animal Rescue League.

As I was saying, to preserve the velvet collars for Christmas, I was saving them for special occasions, one of which was Rowdy and Kimis visit to the vet for rabies boosters. The fancy dress wasnt mandatoryyou dont really have to get spiffed up for church or temple, eitherbut I warn you: Ministers, priests, and rabbis may overlook dirty, ragged coats, tartar-encrusted teeth, untrimmed nails, and unswabbed ears, but veterinarians do not. All creatures bright and beautiful?

The late afternoon Boston commuter traffic zooming along in both directions in front of the clinic was so ferocious that I stopped wondering whether my Bronco would get hit before I could make the turn and instead tried to decide whether wed get front-ended, rear-ended, or sideswiped. I suddenly wished Id crated the dogs instead of leaving them loose behind the wagon barrier. When a break came, I slammed my foot on the accelerator and roared into the parking lot. Ms. Evel Knievel.

Id just killed the engine, scooped up the ribbon collars, and opened my door when a bright, educated voice rang out my name. A lot of Cambridge women have those classical-music-station voices. Maybe theyre what you get for a big donation to National Public Radio. For a pledge of a hundred dollars or more, you get an NPR voice or a radiotelegraphically correct sweatshirt. My friend and tenant Ritas friend Deborah mustve forked up twice: She never left home without the voice, but on that unseasonably warm December day, she also wore one of the sweatshirts. Deborahs skin is either naturally oily or heavily moisturized. Some stylist mustve promised her that with a body perm, she could just wash her brown hair and then forget it. Forget it? Whenever Deborah looked in the mirror, she must have noticed that sprouting from her scalp were the crisp liver-colored ringlets of an Irish water spaniel. I mean, how could she forget a thing like that? The woman with Deborah had very short, dark, distinctly human hair and wore a red jersey outfit Id admired when Id seen it in the window of Pirjo, a tiny place on Huron Avenue where I cant afford to shop. Envy? Of course.