Running Wild (Wild 3)

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.”

I wince. “Isn’t football over yet?”

He tosses the file onto the console between us. “Come on, for you, Marie? Of course, I’ll do what I can. I mean, how often have you dropped everything to help us out?”

“Once or twice.” I’ve long since lost count of the number of times I’ve been called in to treat an animal that Howie or one of the other officers has brought in on account of abuse. I’ve never minded, especially when it’s Howie calling. He’s been doing this job since I graduated from Washington State University with my veterinarian degree and returned to Alaska. The forty-four-year-old and I became friends long ago, the moment we realized we were kindred spirits where animals were involved.

His forehead wrinkles. “The office really should be phoning this guy to let him know we’re coming.”

“So he has time to hide what he doesn’t want you seeing?”

“Yeah, makes you wonder, right?” He taps against the clipboard on my lap, holding the complaint form I filled out on the way here. A case file number is already scrawled across the top in Howie’s scribble. “You done with that?”

“Yeah. Everything’s there.” All the facts provided to me—minus Bonnie’s baseless accusations—after the Hatchetts arrived at my clinic.

“At least we’re doing some of this by the book. You know it’s already going to be a tough sell. And we can’t just barrel in there with accusations. We don’t even know if the dog is his.”

“I know.” She’s not microchipped. I already scanned her.

“Okay, then. Let’s go stir up some shit.” He slides out of the driver’s side and rustles around in the toolbox in his truck bed, pulling out his bolt cutters.

In his jeans and parka, with wisps of hair peeking out from beneath his knitted Giants cap, Howie cuts through the mushing facility’s entrance gate—and nothing about this Sunday afternoon looks “by the book.” But showing up here like two regular people who found a wandering dog, rather than an animal control officer and a veterinarian hunting for an abuser, might get us the information we need.