Cat Playing Cupid

22

IT WAS JUST dawn when Ryan's red pickup headed up the hills on the narrow dirt road that led to the Pamillon estate. Sunrise stained the green slopes and sent a rosy glow into the cab. Ryan drove, her dad sitting in the front beside her. Behind them Rock rode restlessly in the backseat of the king cab, his short tail wagging madly: Adventure lay ahead, he sensed Ryan's intensity, and the big dog quivered with anticipation.

Mike sat turned, watching him but thinking about Lindsey, who had gone on an errand with Dallas this morning, and the Scots Irishman was as restless as the Weimaraner. Ryan watched her dad with amusement, knowing that he was jealous, jealous that Lindsey was with Dallas, and she turned away to hide a smile.

Dallas, now that he had an ID on Carson Chappell, had wanted a look at Chappell's belongings, which Lindsey had stored in a locker up the valley. A perfectly straightforward errand, but it had Mike fidgeting. Dad, you're getting serious, she thought, grinning.

The day before yesterday, when Ryan and Clyde had gotten home from the wine country, her dad had swung by the house to bring Rock home, to drop off Clyde's roadster, and to pick up his clothes; Lindsey had followed him in her Mercedes. He'd said they were off to the dealerships, that it was time he bought a car, that they'd have an early dinner up the coast. In Ryan's opinion, when a guy took his date with him car shopping, he was hooked-and now this morning Lindsey was off with Dallas on a perfectly innocent errand and he was as jealous as a kid.

But as Ryan came up over the last hill below the Pamillon estate, she thought she'd have her dad's full attention very soon. That for the next hour, Lindsey would take a backseat to what was about to happen.

Mike thought this venture to "test" Rock's tracking skills was foolish, he'd made it clear it could do more harm than good, could create problems with Rock's future training-but early this morning, in the dark hour before dawn, Clyde and Joe Grey had left home in the roadster, heading up here to the ruins to execute their part of the plan.

Mike didn't have a clue to what he was about to witness. He knew Clyde had laid a trail, but he thought he was going to see a confused, uncertain dog or a dog running crazily off after squirrels or deer, that he was going to see a very embarrassed handler. But in a few minutes, her good dog was going to prove Mike Flannery way wrong. Was going to show Mike the impossible-and was going to win her a hundred-dollar bet. She could already feel that crisp bill lining her pocket.

Mike didn't often gamble. When he did, his bets were penny ante, never for a hundred bucks, but this morning he knew he couldn't lose.

He believed he couldn't lose, Ryan thought smugly. Yesterday she and Clyde, and Joe Grey, had worked with Rock up at the Harper ranch, with only Charlie to witness their bizarre training session as, quickly and efficiently, the gray tomcat had instilled in Rock a hunger for tracking, an intent focus, that would have taken a human trainer months to accomplish.

Joe's tutoring was inspired. The tomcat employed a brilliant show-and-tell method that no human trainer could ever duplicate.

Rock already knew the word "Find" that Clyde and Ryan used around the house: "Find Clyde," or "Find Ryan." Before Joe's first training session, Rock had considered the command a word to be obeyed, or not, depending on his mood.

Now, after Joe's training, that word brought the big dog to full attention. The command was no longer arbitrary.

Now, they must never again use "Find" in a casual or unthinking way. Now, "Find" must be reserved only for Rock's serious work.

Yesterday afternoon, before Ryan and Rock arrived at the ranch, Clyde had walked a complicated trail through the Harpers' pastures, leaving his scent in the air and on the low grass and earth, a trail that only an animal could detect, then he had vanished into the woods.

When Ryan and Rock arrived, her command to "Find Clyde" had garnered only a happy, doggy smile. Not seeing Clyde nearby, Rock had laughed up at her and was about to race away to the pasture to play with the two Harper dogs when Joe Grey took command.

The tomcat moved in front of Rock, fixing him with a bold gaze. "Find Clyde! Find Clyde now!"

Rock had always paid attention to Joe. The phenomenon of a talking cat had never quite lost its shock value. Now, when Joe commanded, Rock cocked his head, staring down at Joe, his ears up, his short tail wagging. Of course he had caught Clyde's scent, but Clyde wasn't in sight, so what was all the fuss?

Joe put his nose to the ground, sniffing up Clyde's scent, and again he told Rock to "Find! Find Clyde now!" and he set off on the trail in a passion of excitement, the tomcat's every move meaning business-and Rock came to full alert. Touched with doggy awe of the tomcat, the Weimaraner put his own nose to the ground and fell in beside Joe, drinking up the scent, huffing with Joe's challenge: This strange tomcat was, suddenly, keenly fixed on matters of mysterious importance.

Following Joe's lead, Rock stayed intently on Clyde's trail back and forth along every turn and backtrack that Clyde had made. Joe's intense concentration was the key. This predatory pursuit of the trail by another animal awakened in the Weimaraner's blood all the skills he was bred to. Soon he was racing ahead of Joe, nose to the trail, caught in the deep animal thrill of tracking, experiencing an explosive epiphany in his doggy soul-this pursuit spoke to the Weimaraner's deepest needs, to a genetic hunger older than the breed itself, to an imperative as ancient as Rock's wolf ancestors. He knew nothing but the scent he tracked, he flew after it, he wheeled and doubled back and plunged ahead through the woods, cutting sharply around the oaks and pines. He never wavered onto a rabbit or deer track, though Joe said later that those smells had been fresh and enticing.

When at last Rock found Clyde hiding in the woods, he keened a sharp, quick series of barks and plowed into Clyde, leaping on him, yipping and whining. The two of them tussled roughly, Clyde laughing and Rock barking with pleasure. The word "Find" had become a red flag of fierce excitement, the lesson imprinted so sharply on his keen Weimaraner mind that it would never be forgotten.

That same afternoon, under Joe's direction, Rock had tracked Ryan with equal focus and joy. And just before supper he'd tracked Charlie. When he found her hiding in the hay barn, he was all over her-manners were on hold when it came to tracking, manners would be considered later, under different circumstances. Right now the key was enthusiasm and joy, and the team let Rock know he was the most wonderful dog the world had ever seen.

Ryan had been so thrilled with the performance that she had hugged Joe Grey, nearly smothering him, hardly knowing what to say to him. "If you weren't so valuable to the department, you could be a professional dog trainer. Except Detective Davis, for one, would rather you stayed on as snitch, forever."

"What?" he said, shocked. "She doesn't know! What did she say?"

"She doesn't know," Ryan said, laughing, teasing him. "But after Christmas, after you three helped nail the man who killed that little girl's father, Juana said she didn't care who the phantom detectives were, she just hoped they'd be on the job until hell froze over."

Joe smiled hugely, couldn't stop smiling. He watched Ryan stroke Rock as the big dog leaned happily against her. "He's ready for tomorrow," he'd told her. "More than ready."

She'd hugged him again, and kissed his ear. "This is a miracle, Joe. And Dad thinks our test is going to bomb." And she and Joe Grey grinned at each other. This time, this one time, Mike Flannery would have egg on his face.

SO IT WAS that early this morning, before daylight, before Mike and Ryan set out, Clyde and Joe had driven up to the ruins where Clyde walked a circuitous, wandering path that ended at last within the grotto beside the unknown grave. There, with a stick, Clyde had uncovered one bony hand so that Rock, and then Mike, couldn't miss the body.

Joe, losing himself among the fallen walls, had stayed well away from Clyde's trail so as not to lay his own scent and divert Rock. As the sky began to lighten, stained by the brilliant sunrise, Clyde could just see the tomcat atop a far wall, a gray shadow, rearing up for a moment to watch Ryan's red truck make its way up the narrow dirt road.

Quickly Clyde scattered a few leaves over the skeletal hand, then settled down on the mossy bench with a book, waiting for Rock to find him.

But he didn't read much, he was too interested in the drama about to unfold. In the cool little grotto surrounded by overgrown jasmine vines and camellia bushes entangled with the weeds, he listened to the truck pull in among the fallen walls. Standing concealed among the shadows, he watched Ryan and Mike swing out, Ryan holding Rock on a short lead. They were perhaps a third of a mile away. Clyde watched Ryan open a plastic bag containing one of his own dirty socks and present it to the Weimaraner. She would be saying, "Find Clyde. Find Clyde now."

He watched Rock sniff the sock, then sniff the ground, then stare up at Ryan. Rock circled, and circled wider, pulling her along-and suddenly, his short tail wagging madly, he took off fast, his nose to the ground, forcing Ryan to run; as the big dog sped along the scent, Clyde could hear Ryan's occasional encouragement, hear Rock's faint huffing, and hear pebbles being dislodged as Rock scrambled among the fallen walls.

He'd catch it tonight, he thought, grinning, for the rough route he'd laid, for every one of Ryan's scratches and bruises. He watched the two disappear and reappear beyond tangled walls and fallen trees and then among the sheltering wings of the house itself, watched Mike following at some distance, an incredulous frown on his face, a hard look of disbelief-as if sure that his daughter was scamming him.

Clyde could still see Joe among the far rubble, observing the unfolding drama from atop a pile of broken concrete, his gray coat barely visible as he watched Rock's sure and steady progress. Clyde found it hard to believe that that lovely woman leaning back on the lead, that beautiful, lithe woman with the short, dark hair, her lovely green eyes lifting up to him once, that beautiful woman in the faded jeans curving so enticingly over her tight little butt was his wife. That tough, gentle woman speaking so softly to Rock and with such contained excitement as the big dog pulled her along between the fallen walls and dead trees.

He watched the Weimaraner make a sharp turn around the broken gate just as he, himself, had done earlier, then circle the remains of a collapsed toolshed, then wind twice through the tangled, half-dead fruit orchard-and head straight for the grotto. Rock's nose was up now, air scenting Clyde, as sure and skilled as any seasoned tracker-then suddenly Rock saw him. Jerking the lead from Ryan's willing hand, he streaked for the grotto, leaped on Clyde, barking and roughhousing. Ryan hurried in, Mike behind her, saying exactly what they'd expected.

"You've been training him! This is no test, you two! This is a seasoned tracker. This is a scam! The bet's off, my girl."

"How could I train him?" Ryan said indignantly. "When have I had the time? We've been on our honeymoon, in case you hadn't noticed. You've had the dog all week." She sat down beside Clyde on the bench, hugging and praising Rock, then looked up at her dad again. "The bet's not off. I've had no time to train him."

Mike looked at his daughter patiently. He knew he'd been scammed but he didn't know how.

Ryan smiled and shrugged, looking blank. She daren't look at Clyde, she knew they'd both laugh and they couldn't afford to do that. This was not a joke that could be told later, this was a secret they must keep forever, that they could never share.

And it was then, as she pummeled Rock and looked up secretly at Clyde, that the dog swung suddenly away from her, scenting eagerly toward the bushes. She grabbed his collar.

"What?" she said softly. "What is it?"

Rock was at full alert, huffing in deep breaths.

Snapping on his lead again, keeping the big dog close, she let him pull her. Rock was on perfect point, steady and intent, his attention focused on a few small, frail bones barely visible beneath the rotting leaves.