Heads Up-Range, pt. 1
‘Well, I believe it was a dog. It could have been a dog. There were qualities that were dog-like. A sort of black trim around its open mouth. Panting. Tongue-out. Webbed paws that could clop and trot but could also come up for a handshake. Yes, I’m certain it was a dog.’
‘Did it—in fact—shake when asked?’
‘I didn’t ask; just seemed like it could. Like it possessed carpal joints. I’m not sure about its training.’
‘And what happened next? Where did it go?’
‘After the strange experience, I suppose it ran away toward the Johnstons. They live right over there.’
‘Anything else you can remember?’
‘Not remember, no.’
‘Well, alright then, I suppose I’ll be on my way.’
‘Oh, mister. Please be careful. It means a whole lot that the creature makes it into your car safely. I won’t abide their getting hurt.’
‘Right. Have a good one, Ms. Brendt. Thanks for the tip.’
Bert Johnston has a different story.
‘That what Sheila Brendt has to say? The cougar came up our way? I leave feline scat and piss clumps all around the boundary so they don’t come my way and spook the chickens. Saw it as I took my morning coffee; passed through the woods to the north, going toward Sheila’s. Mean looking thing. Kinda look you’d find on a man leaving family court. Was gonna grab my .308, but only had my tranq handy. Fran doesn’t want me killing every little creature that comes around for a peek. But—as I’m sure you know—Bidley Co. tranqs don’t have much range on them. Quality tool overall, no disrespect. Glad I bought one, but it can’t carry four hundred feet across my yard like my .308. It just can’t. They let you shoot real guns in your line of duty?’
‘Can’t say they do, sir. Fran’s the missus of the house? She around, or see anything?’
‘Fran’s my older sister. She’s out grocery shopping.’
‘I see. And you last saw it heading towards Ms. Brendt’s house, you say?’
‘Bet ya saw the cougar pelt hanging on her banister. Her father loved hunting them up-range. She knew I’d call animal control on it, so she kilt it and beat me to the buzzer.’
‘Up-range?’
‘Past Winsome Peak. State land, on the other side of Jimmy Carmel’s place. Reckon there’s a cougar den close to where ol’ Jimmy dumps his chicken bones. You didn’t hear it from me, but Jimmy don’t like paying the county dump to service his chicken coops. Say, what model year is that Bidley?’
Back at the office, Leila’s stumped, too.
‘You get a call from Bert Johnston, Leila?’
‘Yep, came in just before Sheila’s.’
‘Then why didn’t you send me there first?’
‘Well, Bert was talkin’ cougar, and Sheila spoke of a dog. I didn’t want that poor dog gettin’ mauled by no cougar. Plus, a cougar’s Fish & Game purview.’
‘Did Fish & Game send anyone out to Bert’s?’
‘They might; but they gotta come up from the field office in Kenmore. Don’t expect them until after lunch. Why? What’s wrong, William?’
‘Nothing’s wrong; we just may need to call Mr. Johnston so he’s primed to give the same story to Fish & Game.’
‘Oh my, I never thought of that. Bert’s the type to get steamin’ mad about givin’ the same story to a different agency.’
‘You call Bert and warn him, and I can warn the mayor.’
‘Why the mayor?’
‘Who do you think Bert’s calling right after he’s done with Fish & Game?’
‘Fair point.’
The mayor welcomes the call.
‘William! How are things getting settled down there?’
‘Just fine, Madame Mayor. Things good at City Hall?’
‘Lovely weather for the season. The tax code needs some de-coding if you know what I mean. But otherwise, no complaints. What can I do for you?’
‘Nothing major, ma’am. Just wanted to give you a heads-up about a possible cougar sighting over at Bert Johnston’s place.’
‘A cougar at Bert’s? Pretty far down-range this time of year. You think it’s the weather?’
‘Not sure as of yet, ma’am. He might be a little worked up about it. Giving you the heads-up.’
‘I appreciate you telling me this, William. Have you called the county supervisor’s office? He’s who really needs to know about cougars.’
‘I can call him.’
‘Please do. Is there anything else?’
The county supervisor’s office is set up on a voice menu, and after pressing three for the supervisor, there’s no answer and no answering machine.
‘Any luck with Bert?’ William asks over to Leila.
‘He got me off the cougar topic pretty quick. Wanted to know if I’d tried out the new range in Bryson. I think he was trying to ask me out.’
‘They don’t specify in the job description the kind of animals we work with.’
Leila smiles at the joke, but a heaping portion of expense reports and other paperwork is weighing her spirit. Willam tips the brim of his hat then heads to the pound to lend Hattie a hand.
State inspectors prefer cat and dog feedings at sunup and sundown, which correspond with a crepuscular animal’s natural instincts.
In his three weeks as Hedgeville’s dogcatcher, William had never let Hattie stay past two. Not that she wanted to—she had a daughter she enjoyed picking up from school. William’s predecessor hadn’t seen the pointlessness of having her stand around doing nothing, waiting until an ambiguously mandated time to set food out for sad and mangy creatures who were going to pick at it throughout the night, anyway. Well, most creatures.
‘Beefy’s having a good day.’
‘Sure is,’ Hattie says.
She’s holding out kibble to a ruddy-faced dog hellbent on choking on its food without the meted hand of human intervention.
The internet sells special bowls and feeders for dogs with this condition, but the state funds arbitrary rules, not frivolity.
‘How we looking appointment-wise this Saturday?’
‘Not many. Expect we’ll run pretty thin until the holidays. Same family up in Springvale wants to come see Huntley, yet can’t find the time.’
Hattie’s done this work for more than a decade—longer than Leila—and is worn down by the flood. A flood, not in the sense of capacity, but pain. The pain keeps coming, year after year.
William doesn’t know this. But he expects it by the way Hattie looks at Beefy. Not love or admiration, but curtailed curiosity.
‘Want me down at the end and work up this way?’ he asks.
‘Sure thing.’
William gets more than halfway through doling out kibble and water. Through all the pit bulls, then terriers, and finally the hounds. He stops to give some pets and fetches, but there aren’t many takers today.
Hattie goes slower, taking her time. Getting more opportunities, probably. He’s about to open Duchess’s cage when his radio goes off, which he can’t hear all that well.
‘What’d you say, Leila?’
‘I said it’s Jimmy Carmel. Says he saw a bear cub tearing up his squash.’
The dogs keep barking.
‘On my way.’