Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
murky water to water and fertilize the weeds. I offered to bail, but Nancy said a bit of water
wouldn't sink us.
So off we drove, trailer bouncing, to Taylors Millpond. Two women, a man, a dog, a boat.
We were going to work on water.
Stories about dogs alerting on submerged bodies sounded vaguely apocryphal to me at
first. But water is an ideal medium for transporting cadaver scent to a dog. Bodies seem to
effervesce in water, like slow-motion Alka-Seltzer tablets. They are doing the same thing bod-
ies on land do: decomposing and sending off gases. In the water, those gases bubble up to the
surface and hit the air, then the dog's nose. Oils float up as well, providing a slick on top of
the water that sends out additional scent.
Lakes or rivers can veil a body, though, even when searchers have the latest sonar equip-
ment on hand. Often, especially in the Southeast, divers can't see their hands in front of their
faces. Even when the water is relatively clear, diving and dragging don't always locate the
body. A good water cadaver dog's nose can narrow the search substantially.
Solo and I had just one or two or twelve training issues. Nancy thought she could fix us.
Taylors Millpond is more lake-sized than pond-sized, more than a half mile long, created
before the Civil War and now the site of bass tournaments. It's a few miles down the road
from Nancy's farm. A general store faces the concrete boat ramp. A small group of men often
sit on the concrete porch, chewing or smoking, cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon in hand. Today
was no exception. I nodded, and they nodded back. The store owner shook her head vehe-
mently as I tried to hand her the two-dollar boat-launch fee. She knew Nancy. She also knew
we weren't there to drink beer and troll for largemouth bass.
We backed the trailer down the ramp and got the boat freed and floating in the duckweed
without too much embarrassment and only minor slipping and sliding. David and Nancy
planted themselves in the boat; Solo, who had already swum several laps across one end of
the pond, leaped on board, spraying water over them. Solo loved boats. He thought it was
fun to jump into them and even more fun to jump out of them. I pushed us of and leaped
as well. The boat rocked woozily, and Solo climbed over us to the prow, a soggy figurehead.
David fiddled with the trolling motor. He'd lowered it into the water, but it wouldn't start.
He scowled. He was irritated. He likes things to work.
“It was free,” Nancy reminded him. Like the trailer. Like the boat. Like Nancy working
with us to train Solo on water cadaver. Acrid smoke oozed off a battery connector. I wondered
aloud if batteries could explode. Nancy said no, but we knew she was lying. Bent over the
dead motor, David noted that he could feel the boat moving. It was following the pull from
Moccasin Creek. As we drifted closer to the edge of the overflow, I could see where the pond
ended and water slid over the concrete edge in a fat silky ribbon and disappeared. I could
