Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
got stuck. Those were just the natural hazards. I didn't want to be out there alone meeting the
kind of guy we were searching for.
The two investigators who cheerfully volunteered to accompany us arrived at the scene
at the same time I did. They were clad for strolling down a linoleum hallway, not slogging
through a swamp. The one wearing natty tasseled loafers and creased tailored pants was get-
ting grief from his colleague, who was also wearing office clothes that were only slightly
more suitable. he sharp dresser joked about water moccasins and copperheads, but he wasn't
laughing that hard. A couple of the bloodhound handlers from the Triad foothills had told
me that only people with phobias ever see venomous snakes. I'm not phobic, and I knew that
wasn't true.
I wore no loafers with tassels. I had hastily changed out of my cute linen office outfit and
looked like an aging Outward Bounder. Nancy would have been proud. I was shod in hiking
boots and cross-country-skiing gaiters to discourage ticks carrying rickettsia or Lyme disease;
they might even deflect a reptile fang. No hat: I didn't want to look like a complete doofus.
A fine-toothed flea comb would do the trick post-search to flick ticks out of my short hair.
As usual, Solo provided extra sound effects—mewling, crooning, sounding more like a
great Serengeti cat than a German shepherd. Even his whiskers twitched. He had on his
sturdy nylon harness that could double as a handle to suck him out of the swamp if needed.
He hated the harness, since it signaled a bit of constraint in what he thought should be an
unconstrained life: It meant he might have to work on a long line. Tough titty. It was staying
on.
I ran a final mental checklist: water, water bag, bug spray. Tug toys to reward the dog; I
hadn't forgotten those as I dashed out of the house. They were as essential as water. We had
graduated from one hard rubber Kong to two rope tug toys. One could be thrown straight
into his jaws and the other held in escrow. Solo was still a jackass, too possessive of the tug
toy, especially after a difficult training. Using two solved the problem. I always had the fun
tug in my hand: the one that could get flung far because it wasn't stuck in a stubborn Ger-
man shepherd's jaws. We no longer had a power struggle at the moment when both he and I
should be feeling fine about the work he'd done.
With the permission of the commanding officer, I'd also planted a Mason jar with redolent
training dirt a good distance away from the search area. It wasn't a given that we would find
anything on the search. Critical to Solo's day ending in a satisfactory way was letting him
find some bit of the dead. Mike Baker had given me a gentle lecture after one of Solo's first
long searches. We hadn't found anything, and I hadn't brought any training material so that
I could give him an honest reward. Solo needed to be paid for his work, just like I did, Mike
noted. This time I remembered Solo's paycheck.
