Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,47
article,” the editor said after I had given her the condensed version. “What kind of snake attacked the dog? Poisonous?”
My eyes shifted to a jar where the reptile’s skull, recurved fangs bared, was curing in preservative. “A Burmese python,” I said. “Or possibly an African boa. I sent photos to a herpetologist friend, but she hasn’t gotten back yet. An anaconda is a longer shot.”
“Incredible. A dog who survived a snake that size, my god,” the editor said. “And you say he’s well trained. Field trial quality, do you think?”
I had yet to work with the dog on retrieving, which I told her, then added, “I’m a novice on the subject, so I’d be a poor judge. But he’s definitely been through the upper levels of obedience training.”
“A Lab or a golden? You didn’t say.”
“A Chesapeake, maybe, or one of the rarer breeds,” I said. “I’m guessing.”
“A Chesapeake,” the editor said as if it was significant. Apparently it was, because a minute later she was explaining. “A common mistake people make is thinking that retriever breeds are all similar. You know, sweet, good-natured—but they’re not. In terms of breeding, Chessies have nothing in common with Labs and goldens. Totally different animals. All great in their way, but Chessies are . . . well, they have a much harder edge to them. They’re not a breed I’d recommend to the average owner.”
“He’s so skinny and scarred-up,” I told the woman, “it’s hard to be sure what breed he is. Not from photos on the Internet, anyway. But someone put a lot of time and money into this dog. No way of telling how long he was lost in the Everglades, but yesterday I picked him up and stepped on the scale. He weighs fifty-two pounds. An adult male retriever, average size, should weigh seventy or eighty, right?”
“Poor thing!” the editor sighed, then became overly polite to excuse what was on her mind. “A fascinating story. But before we go any further, well . . . thing is, we have to be careful when it comes to animals that disappear, then show up in the hands of a second party. I believe you, of course, but there are other types out there. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
No, but I took a guess. “I don’t want publicity or a reward unless they want to pick up the vet bills. In fact, I won’t allow my name to be used if you do write something. I called about a lost dog, not to suggest an article.”
“The way I put that was clumsy,” she said. “Dognapping. I should have come right out and said it. We just ran a piece. The FBI goes after kidnappers, everyone knows that. But a blue-chip stud, or a field trial champion worth forty, eighty thousand dollars? Sure, dog theft is against the law, but low priority. The highest ransom on record is twenty-five thousand—a toy Pekingese owned by an actress—but most owners don’t report it. Why would they? Police can’t do much, and all they want is their dog back alive.”
She added, “So if a blue-chip retriever was stolen, chances are we wouldn’t hear a word—not if ransom was demanded. Dognappers, the real professionals—and there are probably a hundred theft rings around the country—have it down to a science. They demand an amount just low enough to stay under the radar but high enough that it adds up to a multimillion-dollar industry.
“Another technique these people use is they pretend to find the dog. Usually under terrible circumstances—save it from being run over by a truck or find it starving in some garbage dump. See what I’m getting at? They contact the owner anonymously, then hint around about a big reward for their trouble. To a family, of course, a dog’s real value has nothing to do with a price. It’s purely an emotional decision. There’s a rumor an oil sheik in the Hollywood Hills paid half a million for his daughter’s missing Afghan.”
Interesting.
We talked for another ten minutes. The editor provided me with a few names to call, and I promised to e-mail a couple of photos.
Then back to work. While I packed the Styrofoam containers, I took occasional breaks to check on the retriever. Early that morning, to stop him from vandalizing boats, I’d loaded a crate of crab buoys onto my stand-up paddle board, then paddled toward the marina basin. The dog had followed, swimming as if at heel until I granted him freedom with