Gun Shy Read Free

was removed and forgotten, or the fact that the dog is minutes away from entering the conformation or agility ring. Obviously the last two instances did not apply to this dog, but I confess I am overall a little judgmental on the subject of collars. In the area in which I live, a dog without a collar usually means an owner who doesn’t have sense enough to take care of his pet.
    I offered my open hand to the yellow Lab and he snuffled and licked it, searching for more hot dogs. I quickly dug out more treats and let him scarf them up while I gently stroked his ears and murmured to him reassuringly.
    From outside Buck called, “Raine, you okay?”
    I didn’t answer because I didn’t want to startle the dog. Instead I murmured, “Okay, big fellow, let’s see about finding you a real meal, hmm?”
    I stood up slowly, holding a cube of cheese in front of the dog’s nose to lead him toward the door. But instead of following complacently, like the good dog he had proven himself to be at heart, he suddenly turned and bolted toward the back of the house, pulling me with such force that he almost jerked me off my feet. I gave an involuntary cry —“Hey!”—which caused Buck, Roe and Wyn to come rushing through the front door with their hands on their sidearms.
    I concentrated on holding on to the leash as the big Lab flung himself on the closed door of what I instinctively knew to be the bedroom. There were claw marks on the door frame and in the finish of the pine-paneled door, where he had alternately tried to dig and push his way inside to find his mistress. Now he was trying, in the best dog language he knew, to get me to open the door.
    Uncle Roe demanded behind me, “You okay? Got him under control?”
    “Yeah, everything’s fine.” I didn’t turn around, but slipped one arm around the dog’s shoulders while tugging gently on the leash, dislodging his paws from the door. “Come on, sweetie, let’s go.”
    The dog gave a plaintive whine and dropped to all fours, responding reluctantly to my leash tugs as we moved away from the door and the awful truth that lay behind it.
    Uncle Roe said, “Thanks, hon. Get on outside now.”
    “I’m going to take the dog to the vet and have him checked out, okay?”
    “Try not to touch anything on your way out.”
    He was pulling on a pair of gloves, his face filled with reluctance for what he was about to do. Buck and Wyn gave me wide berth as I moved the dog past them, which was not really necessary. The Lab could not stop looking over his shoulder and was far more worried about whether to follow my lead on the leash or to try to make another run for the door than with defending himself against strangers.
    For myself, I was more than anxious to be out of the cabin before the bedroom door was opened. The truth is, I have seen dead bodies before. But they are not something that I go out of my way to encounter.
    In addition to my mostly full-time dog training and boarding business, I do seasonal part-time work for the forest service and am always on call, with my golden retriever, Cisco, for search and rescue work. Our little community is only a few miles away from the Appalachian Trail, in the heart of the Smoky Mountain wilderness, and most of the time the hikers, campers and lost tourists we are called to search for are found scared and hungry, but otherwise fine. Occasionally they are not. Those times when a rescue operation turns into a recovery mission are not the kind of thing you want to think about before going to bed at night. And you never, ever want to repeat the experience if you can possibly help it.
    I did not intend to linger. The last thing I wanted to do was to look back inside that door when Uncle Roe opened it. But, of course, the dog saw Uncle Roe cautiously push the door open. He lunged for it. I lunged for him. And what I saw, even though it was barely a glimpse, would remain frozen in my mind forever. Not because it was so horrific, but because it was