Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
Where great things happen,” our city motto proclaims. They do. David and I love Durham.
It's safe to live downtown, as we do—especially with an imposing German shepherd and a
noisy Irish setter in the house. Enough bad things happen in Durham, mostly just outside
my neighborhood, to provide the occasional need for a cadaver dog.
Mike Baker followed through on his promise to expose Solo to new training. “Meet us
at the old Liberty Tobacco warehouse at eight
P.M
.,” he said. So what that it hit ninety-five
degrees at three
P.M
.? That's ideal North Carolina dog-training weather. I, on the other hand,
have asthma that gets triggered by days on end of code-orange air. I also like to be in bed
by ten. Nonetheless, there I was on the dark streets of Durham, searching for the peeling
entrance sign to the Liberty Warehouse, walking past the black-and-white Crown Vics with
their engines rattling loudly, air conditioners blasting to keep their furry occupants cool.
Sharp, intense barks and some paws pounding against the rear door panels made me jump
back and then try to correct my wobble.
I had dressed and redressed myself, tucking and untucking my white T-shirt into my
Costco cargo pants, trying the shirt outside the pants, tousling my short moussed hair, trying
harder than I ever had to look casual: strong but not butch, slightly made up but realistic-
ally sweaty. The sweat was no problem. The mousse melted, making my eyes sting. I walked
into the warehouse, one of the last standing auction houses for loose-leaf tobacco, once the
economic spine of Durham. It was an increasingly leaky and derelict building, now covered
with metal siding, and the natural skylights that once let buyers see the color of the brightleaf
tobacco were boarded over. The sloping floors that tobacco farmers drove their wagons down
were still there, and huge warehouse beams reached up into darkness.
In front of me, I saw a group of men in navy T-shirts and cargo pants standing, arms fol-
ded across chests, watching a dog that looked like a shorthaired, sharp-nosed German shep-
herd with a rattail. I had seen the breed a few times: a Belgian Malinois. I looked more closely
at the T-shirts and body type. Two women, thank God. The fawn-colored dog, his tail stiff,
was prancing on his toes, circling a pickup truck parked inside the warehouse entrance. He
sniffed as he went, tracking along the truck's side and underbelly and around the tire wells.
At the back, he froze briefly, nose inches from the license plate. Then he leaped like a cat
straight into the pickup bed, wheeled around, and anchored his nose to the spot as though an
invisible magnet kept it there, while the rest of his body continued to spin in space. I heard
a low gentle chuckle, and someone breathed out slowly: Good dog. Good dog! A tennis ball
flipped through the air, landed in front of the anchored nose, and bounced. The game was
on. he dog's nails scrabbled for purchase on the concrete as he chased the ball through the
disintegrated tobacco leaves and dust.
Mike Baker was still standing with his arms folded. Medium build, medium-brown short
hair, medium Irish-English features—the kind of guy who might not stand out in a crowd
