Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
ideal. I couldn't leave students waiting in the classroom for a lecture on feminist essentialism
because I was running off to search for a lost three-year-old who was in fact playing with
Transformers at the next-door neighbors' house. Nor could I count on my own body being
the ultimate fitness machine, capable of running for miles after a dog tracking in thick under-
brush; I might end up asthmatic, shambling, sciatic nerves aflame, eyeglasses either fogged or
smashed. Lost people needed better odds than I offered.
That made sense to Nancy. Besides, she had become less enamored of search-and-rescue
team politics over the years. She described them in ways that made them sound similar to
my English department, without the Victorian charm. More issues emerged. I didn't want to
wear search gear that would make me look like a Girl Scout. Then there was the idea of a
team. I could collaborate, but I couldn't really relate to the cheery phrase “Remember, there
is no 'I' in team.” It didn't suit Solo, either. Better that he didn't constantly have to deal with
the hurly-burly of dog society. Sending him out to track alongside several self-assured search
dogs? They wouldn't put up with his nastiness. They'd reduce him to tufts of black-and-red
fur spread over the trail.
There was one way around all of the scheduling problems, my team-player problems, and
Solo's psycho-puppy problems. Nancy was pleased with herself for coming up with it: “a ca-
daver dog.”
I didn't know exactly what Nancy meant, but I could guess. Dead dog. I'm good at putting
words together and knowing what they mean. It's what I do for a living.
It's ideal, she told me. The dead will wait. In the meantime, they emit scent. With a few
frozen exceptions, more and more scent over time. And cadaver dogs and their handlers work
mostly by themselves, in methodical search grids, not alongside other dogs and handlers. The
dog's job is both simple and complex: to go to where the scent is the strongest and tell the
handler it's there. It's work that needs to be done. Families and law enforcement, mostly, al-
though not always, want bodies found. Besides, she told me, beaming, her smile lines in full
evidence, “It's a ton of fun. You'll love it!”
Nancy avoided mentioning that my salmon-colored linen pants were probably not the
ideal thing to wear on searches.
At the end of our session, she sent me and Solo of down the road. I was sweaty, I reeked
of liver treats, and I was filled with inexplicable happiness about those who go missing for a
long time. Solo, exhausted, slept soundly in the backseat, although his outsize feet continued
to twitch, pedaling air-conditioning instead of cyclone fence.
Nancy, knowing my compulsive habits, expressly forbade me to read about training dogs
on cadaver scent. I would screw up Solo's training by reading too many theories too soon. She
had two exceptions: Bill Syrotuck's
Scent and the Scenting Dog
and Andy Rebmann's
Cadaver
