Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
dog's going to go crazy, looking and looking and looking and not finding it,” she warned
handlers at a seminar.
So you have to know how to read your dog. And the wind. And the temperatures over
days. And the water and terrain. Everything, really. Finally, it can come down to something
like chance. Like dropping a leash.
Deborah paused. “So, who made me put the leash there?”
• • •
In North Carolina, Solo, I, and the investigators were past the wood line and down in the
swamp. As far as I could see was waist-high neon-green poison ivy. Hundreds and thousands
of immature
Toxicodendron radicans
, with leaves the size of a toddler's hand, waving in the
breeze. Growing together closely enough that I knew I couldn't weave among those open
palms without their touching me. Solo was demonstrating the inevitability of getting tagged.
I could barely see him, about a hundred feet away, as he created a lively conga line of poison
ivy. He plowed through, harvesting the oils so they would rub off on me next time I touched
him. Over the last decade, poison ivy in this region has been getting bigger, growing faster,
and becoming more poisonous. Poison ivy loves global warming. Here, in the open swamp,
it didn't have the opportunity to train itself into the hairy ropes one sees on trees, but there
was something more disturbing about these tender ivy infants. I had to remind myself that,
as noxious as I find it, it's a native plant that feeds the locals: Songbirds from the catbird to
the Carolina wren, honeybees, deer, and muskrat benefit from its tiny blooms, leaves, and
berries.
That sea of poison ivy could also be hiding a body: someone who had run from the police
at night in a downpour without a flashlight. He wouldn't have thought about poison ivy; the
dark and rain would have hidden its identity. His body could be out there in the middle of it.
It wasn't convenient, but I didn't have much choice: I pulled down my long sleeves, buttoned
them, raised my arms above the ivy, and followed the leader. The two investigators followed
us through the bog. Their loafers were getting wet, but I heard no complaints.
We had cleared a section of the swamp when I suggested a temporary halt to cool the
pooch. Solo had quartered back and forth gamely, no longer on a trail, simply trying to catch
the edge of a scent cone as he'd been trained.
Nada
. On the bright side, none of us had
drowned or hurt ourselves. We'd been out for only twenty minutes or so, but it was eighty
degrees. Solo, dashing around in his double-fur coat, was not quite hyperventilating but close
to it. He was in great physical condition; nonetheless, a scenting or tracking dog on the job
can tire much more quickly than a dog out for a walk—a scenting dog isn't just breathing,
but is deliberately pulling more air in, and sending that air in a different direction once it's in
his nose, to identify the scent. A sniffing dog breathes in between 140 to 200 times a minute,
