Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121020 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
“Dr. Lehr.” Bonnie’s pointy chin dips in greeting, and my skin prickles with awareness. She only uses my official title when they want something specific from me.
“Who’s this?” I take in the dog’s eyes—one a pale blue, the other brown. Apprehension fills them, but it doesn’t make a sound. It’s skinny and weathered, with oozing bite marks on its thigh.
It can’t be one of theirs. Around here, the Hatchett name is synonymous with winning races, and breeding and keeping champion sled dogs. Between my father and me, we’ve treated the Hatchett Kennels for four decades, and they take exceptional care of their dogs.
“She wandered over from the old Danson place,” Harry says with a sharp look.
“Right, your mother mentioned you had a new neighbor.” A musher who moved here from somewhere abroad and bought the sizable property next to them.
“Look what he’s done to her!” Bonnie shakes a gnarled index finger at the sad-looking animal in Harry’s arms, her pinched face an odd mix of sympathy and triumph. This isn’t the first time she’s suggested that her new neighbor abuses his dogs, approaching me for help to expose him. But she’s never had any evidence, only hunches.
Now, it appears she might have proof to back up her claim.
“I’ll bet he’s been using her to churn out litters of puppies.” Harry bends his athletic body over to ease the dog onto the floor.
Her nose twitches, taking in the medley of antiseptic and animal scents as she looks around the lobby, searching for an escape, I’m sure.
I crouch to my haunches. “Hey, girl.” I’d put her at about forty pounds. Not emaciated, but underweight for her size. She should tip the scale at fifty.
It’s a long moment before she takes the few hobbled steps over to sniff my outstretched hand with a cautious pass of her snout.
From this angle, I’m able to see the loose skin and enlarged nipples on her underbelly. She’s had puppies. Probably multiple litters, the latest one within the past six months. My nostrils fill with the smell of her fetid breath. “Have you met this guy yet?”
“Once. Mom and I headed over the week he moved in for a little meet ’n’ greet. You know, the friendly neighbor thing to do. We ran into him halfway up his laneway. He didn’t invite us to the house, and by the next week he had a gate up on the driveway and a dozen warning signs to keep people off his property. Seems weird, doesn’t it? To be so unfriendly with your neighbors right off the bat, especially us? And in a tight community like this where people help each other out?” Harry shakes his head. “It’s gotta make you wonder what he’s hiding back there.”
“He’s doin’ somethin’ he doesn’t want us to know about. That’s the only explanation,” Bonnie chirps.
“Definitely makes me wonder something,” I murmur. The dog does another cautious pass before stepping forward, accepting a scratch on her forehead. Whatever she’s been through, she’s not aggressive. She lets me lift her lip to check her mouth. Her teeth look okay—not great—but her gums are a mess—an abscess is causing that foul odor. Aside from the obvious ailments, the dog doesn’t appear sickly, though. Without doing a full exam and lab work, I wouldn’t know for sure. “And you’re sure she wandered over from this guy’s place?”
“I followed the tracks to our fence line,” Harry confirms. “Where else would she come from?”
“It’s people like these who bring a bad name to mushing and give material for all those exposés. He has no business ownin’ sled dogs or bein’ anywhere near us. We need to make an example of him.” Bonnie’s jaw is set with determination as she looks at her son, goading him.
“Yeah, you need to help us with this, Marie.” Harry’s tone has shifted in his attempt to sound more commanding. “He can go back to Finland or wherever the hell he came from if he wants to treat dogs like this. I don’t want him anywhere near our race.”
I bite my tongue against the urge to ask if they would be so adamant to stop their new neighbor from competing if there wasn’t speculation that he’s exceptionally skilled—enough to beat Harry, who came in second last year but has yet to win. I also don’t mention the rumor that’s been floating around about this new guy breeding and selling sled dogs to other mushers. I have no idea if that’s wishful thinking or fact, but with a crop of dogs from Finland, that means fresh bloodlines, which means less risk of inbreeding. That concern has been cropping up more lately for dogs coming from Harry, who frankly doesn’t know what he’s doing in that department.
Not like Earl did.
But I don’t miss the way Harry says our race. One might think he means Alaska, but I’ve experienced his entitled arrogance enough to know he means his race. The Hatchetts have positioned themselves as mushing experts within the community. With a multitude of Iditarod wins under their belt, they’ve earned notoriety. But without Earl, Harry is just an obnoxious, self-centered guy trying to fill shoes that will always be too big for him.