Dangerous Refuge

chapter Thirteen



The vet had silver hair and beard, and blue eyes behind wire reading glasses that he peered over half the time. Tanner was surprised to find the vet’s face unlined.

Dr. Warren smiled like he could read the other man’s mind. “I went gray when I was thirty,” he said. “Good for business. Been getting early-bird specials since I was forty.”

Smiling, Tanner shook the vet’s hand. “Sorry to put you to the trouble of a private consult.”

“I was one of the few people in the valley who actually liked Lorne,” the vet said. “Cantankerous old coot, but he took care of his animals and paid his bills. Left a gold coin with me to pay for Dingo, because he didn’t have any other cash.”

Shaye went still.

“Did he do that often?” Tanner asked easily.

“A couple times,” the other man said. “I’d hold the coin until he got the cash. He always paid.”

“What kind of coin?”

The vet shrugged. “Looked like the same one every damn time. I’m not a coin collector. It’s in my safe. You can have it when Dingo is released or you can use it to pay for the dog and I’ll give you the change.”

Tanner nodded. He could insist on seeing the coin, but there was no reason to irritate the vet. “When did Lorne bring Dingo in?”

“Early Wednesday morning, and I do mean early. Rousted me out of bed. Good thing, too. The dog nearly died.”

“How’s Dingo now?” Shaye asked.

“As good as can be expected. Like I said, Lorne didn’t ignore his animals. He caught on real quick that Dingo was deadly sick. But the dog still suffered some seizures and hyperthermia. That’s elevated body temperature, really high. Nearly lost him.” His eyes glanced down at the rest of the chart. “He’s stable now, still on fluids and light sedation to keep him comfortable. He should pull through, but it will be a long time before he eats steak again.”

“Steak?” Tanner asked.

“Yeah. Found some red meat in Dingo’s gut that he hadn’t puked out yet. Too weak. Lorne said he didn’t remember having any steak lately, and Dingo wasn’t a counter thief anyway.”

“My uncle wasn’t the kind of man who fed steak to his dogs.”

The vet nodded. “Lorne was cussing fit to scorch paint, trying to figure out what kind of damn fool son of a bitch, pardon my language, would leave varmint bait where his dog could get it.”

“Was it carrion?” Shaye asked.

“No. Meat was fresh beneath the stomach acids.”

“Maybe Dingo went onto a neighboring property,” she said.

And maybe someone wanted Dingo out of the way, Tanner thought. But he kept it to himself.

“Could be, but Dingo didn’t wander around roads or other ranches,” Warren said. “Dogs that do end up as bobcat or coyote bait, or get run over. I patch those dogs up or put them down too often. And I yell at the stupid owners, for all the good it does. Dingo was seven. Only time I ever saw him was for his shots. Except for the time when he took on a porcupine when he was young and stupid.”

“Did the toxicity levels look like an accidental dose?” Tanner asked.

Dr. Warren looked at him curiously. “And here I was explaining hyperthermia to you. What line of work are you in?”

“Public safety.”

“Dingo weighs about twenty-two kilos, just shy of fifty pounds. He ingested maybe twelve or thirteen milligrams of the active ingredient. I’ve seen dogs die with less and I’ve seen dogs take a lot more and still be ticking.”

Tanner looked interested.

Dr. Warren took the hint and kept talking. “From the severity of the symptoms, I’d say that Dingo got a pretty good dose. Maybe it was some idiot trying to get rid of coyotes and getting ranch dogs instead. Whatever, Dingo paid the price.”

Tanner nodded. “Accident?”

“He’s the only dog anyone has brought in during the last few weeks with poisoning, but not everyone brings a sick animal to the vet. And sometimes people put out poison without thinking about what happens to the squirrels or varmints after they die, or thinking that something you like having around might eat the poisoned carcass. People . . .” Dr. Warren shrugged. “Never could figure them out. That’s why I like animals. They can’t lie to me.”

Shaye still looked worried. “But Dingo’s going to be okay, isn’t he?”

Dr. Warren put a hand on her shoulder. “You can come back and see him if you want, but he’ll be sleeping. We’re keeping him that way so he won’t pull out the IV line.”

“Thanks, I’d like to see him.”

“Been a rough week for you, hasn’t it?”

She smiled wanly. “Yes.”

Tanner and Shaye followed the vet to another area of the office. Quietly they looked inside the animal hospital’s version of a critical care unit. Dingo lay on the towel-lined floor of one of the kennels. An IV line led into the cage. He was breathing shallowly, legs twitching like he was chasing dream rabbits.

“Huh,” Tanner said softly. “Looks like that mutt out of the Mad Max movies, only tawny instead of black.”

“That was a Queensland Heeler in the movies,” Warren said. “Dingo is, ah, well, Dingo. Probably Aussie and Queensland mix mostly, with some bigger dog in his ancestry. I hear Lorne found him hiding under the porch some years back.”

“He looks skinny,” Shaye said, her voice worried.

“We had to intubate him and hit him with a light dose of ammonium chloride to clear the last of the poison. That’s hard on a system.”

“Beats dying,” Tanner said.

“So we assume. We’ll give Dingo a lot of rest and keep him under observation here for a couple days. Then . . .” The vet shrugged and looked at Tanner. “You’re paying the bills. You tell me what you want to do.”

He blew out a breath. “My apartment has a no-pet rule.”

“My condo doesn’t,” Shaye said instantly.

Dr. Warren looked at her. “Dingo isn’t a condo dog, but maybe he can learn.”

“Surely some rancher needs a good dog,” Tanner said.

“I’ll check around, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

“I’ll take him,” she said. “I couldn’t leave him to be put down because his owner died. It’s not the dog’s fault.”

“Be sure to leave your contact information up front with Betty, then, Ms. Townsend. We’ll be in touch.”

Tanner held his tongue until they were alone in the car again. “I doubt if Dingo will take to being shut up.”

“He can come to work with me most of the time. I’m out on ranches more than I’m in meetings.” Her voice was like the set of her mouth. Stubborn.

“Dr. Warren knows a lot of ranchers.”

“So do I. None of them are looking for dogs.”

“If Dingo is on his feet before I go back to L.A., I’ll take him back to the ranch he knows. We don’t have to decide things right now.”

Before I go back to L.A.

Shaye knew Tanner was going to leave, but hearing it said so casually put her on edge. “You do what you have to do. I’ll do the same.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. She was right, so why did he feel like arguing?

“I’m doing the best I can,” he said after a few minutes.

“So am I.”

Neither of them said much over sandwiches at a place in South Tahoe. After lunch, Shaye settled back in the car and tried not to see Lorne every time she closed her eyes.

And not to think about Tanner leaving.

I’m crazy, she said to herself. The dog, Tanner . . . Crazy. At least the dog needs a home.

The part that made her doubt her sanity was her growing belief that Tanner did, too.