Running Wild(Wild #3)(6)

“He’s doin’ somethin’ he doesn’t want us to know about. That’s the only explanation,” Bonnie chirps.

“Definitely makes me wonder something,” I murmur. The dog does another cautious pass before stepping forward, accepting a scratch on her forehead. Whatever she’s been through, she’s not aggressive. She lets me lift her lip to check her mouth. Her teeth look okay—not great—but her gums are a mess—an abscess is causing that foul odor. Aside from the obvious ailments, the dog doesn’t appear sickly, though. Without doing a full exam and lab work, I wouldn’t know for sure. “And you’re sure she wandered over from this guy’s place?”

“I followed the tracks to our fence line,” Harry confirms. “Where else would she come from?”

“It’s people like these who bring a bad name to mushing and give material for all those exposés. He has no business ownin’ sled dogs or bein’ anywhere near us. We need to make an example of him.” Bonnie’s jaw is set with determination as she looks at her son, goading him.

“Yeah, you need to help us with this, Marie.” Harry’s tone has shifted in his attempt to sound more commanding. “He can go back to Finland or wherever the hell he came from if he wants to treat dogs like this. I don’t want him anywhere near our race.”

I bite my tongue against the urge to ask if they would be so adamant to stop their new neighbor from competing if there wasn’t speculation that he’s exceptionally skilled—enough to beat Harry, who came in second last year but has yet to win. I also don’t mention the rumor that’s been floating around about this new guy breeding and selling sled dogs to other mushers. I have no idea if that’s wishful thinking or fact, but with a crop of dogs from Finland, that means fresh bloodlines, which means less risk of inbreeding. That concern has been cropping up more lately for dogs coming from Harry, who frankly doesn’t know what he’s doing in that department.

Not like Earl did.

But I don’t miss the way Harry says our race. One might think he means Alaska, but I’ve experienced his entitled arrogance enough to know he means his race. The Hatchetts have positioned themselves as mushing experts within the community. With a multitude of Iditarod wins under their belt, they’ve earned notoriety. But without Earl, Harry is just an obnoxious, self-centered guy trying to fill shoes that will always be too big for him.

And of course, they’d want me, a veterinarian who has been volunteering with the Iditarod for the past decade and has personal connections with key people within the race, to be the one to raise the issue. It’ll look better than a rival doing so.

Whatever the Hatchetts’ motivation, there are clear signs of neglect here that concern me. If this dog is in fact their new neighbor’s, this needs to be brought to the Iditarod Trail Committee’s attention immediately, and if I get my way, the guy will be disqualified from racing.

I read the clock on the wall. One ten. I guess I know what I’m doing with my afternoon now. “Cory, can you give Howie a call? If he doesn’t answer his cell, try his home number.”





CHAPTER TWO





“What’s his name again?”

Howie eases his pickup truck to the end of the driveway, the passage beyond blocked by a metal farm gate. “Says here”—the animal control officer checks the paper file he grabbed from the office on the way to pick me up—“Tyler Brady. He applied for his kennel license last summer. Twenty-one dogs.”

“That’s all?” These competitive kennels normally have at least thirty, so they can select the best of the best come race time. Otherwise, they’re leasing dogs from places like Harry’s.

“Twenty-one dogs. Tami did the inspection and approved it.”

“No concerns?”

“None. He was in the middle of a bunch of new construction for them, but he met all the basic needs. Food, water, beds, proper leads … She didn’t flag anything. Obviously didn’t see this one.” He peers over his shoulder at the dog stretched out in the back of the cab.

“And he’s from Finland?” That’s an awfully American name for someone who, according to rumor, moved here from the Scandinavian country last summer.

Howie drags a calloused index finger across handwritten notes on a separate piece of paper. “Yup. Finland.”

A country with a robust dogsledding industry, with racers who regularly travel here to compete. So, what made him move to Alaska with his dogs?

“You sure you want to do this?” Howie studies me.

I consider his question for all of one second before nodding. “If what the Hatchetts say is true, then who knows what else is on that property. There could be more dogs like her. And if she escaped, he’s going to want to get rid of any evidence of that before people start asking questions.” Maybe I’m imagining worst-case scenarios, but all it takes is a visit to one poorly run kennel to make those horrific images live in your head. And with the state this dog is in, those images could be a reality here.

Howie scratches at his graying temples as he sizes up the chained gate.

“You have jurisdiction here.” We’re outside the city borders.

“Yeah, but that’s not normally how this works.” He chuckles. “This is gonna make for an interesting Sunday afternoon. But hey, what else did I have going on? You know, besides relaxing on my couch with a beer, watching a Giants’ playoff game in a rare moment of peace while Debra takes the kids to her parents for the day.”