Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay Gordon Carroll (readera ebook reader .txt) 📖

at the edge of the sidewalk that led to the incinerator where the grass had been pushed down. He stayed there for a minute, breathing deeply in through his nose and out through the slits at the sides of his nose. This action helped to stir the air around the spot he was smelling allowing him to inhale even more scent molecules. Now his conflict with the Alpha was forgotten. There was only the hunt. Taking in the smell — taking it deep — in and out — in and out — focusing — gaining knowledge of his prey. He moved down a few yards — stopped — more scent. Male — not heavy as humans go — a hundred and fifty pounds — long stride. A few yards further — sweat from skin cells that had fallen as he ran. And now Max had him. He was locked on.

Max passed the metal clothes poles — passed the incinerator — came to the five foot fence — cleared it in a single, graceful leap — landed on the other side — quartered, searching — found where the man’s feet crushed the grass after jumping over the fence. Max could smell the chlorophyll that bled from a single blade and here there were dozens. Max moved faster now, crossing the yard and coming to an open gate that led out to the front yard. The track moved over a flowerbed, passed across the driveway, through the front lawn, over a sidewalk and into the street. Here there was little ground disturbance and the track was over an hour old.

Max lost it.

I made it to the front yard just as Max entered the street. I checked both ways, there were no cars coming. I would have been right with him but I lost a few seconds hopping over the six-foot privacy-fence. It was in pretty shabby shape and, unlike Max, I can’t leap tall fences in a single bound. The first plank I jumped up on splintered, dumping me on my butt. I finally found a stable spot at the corner of the yard where the two sides met. By then Max was going out the front gate.

I could tell he’d lost it by the way he was quartering, but I wasn’t worried. I knew Max would find it.

My hope was that Gauges took off out the back going as fast as he could but then heard the additional units coming into the area, maybe even saw some of their lights, got scared and hid.

The key to a good K9 search is usually a perimeter of police cars being set up fast. That makes the bad guy go to ground and keeps him pinned down. This is important because a guy can run faster than a dog can track. Tracking is hard work and it takes time for the dog to figure it out. So if you can’t get the bad guy to hide and he just keeps going, the dog will never be able to catch up.

Of course Gauges may have seen the police cars leave the area and taken off already, or he might have used a cell phone to call a friend who came and picked him up. Or he might have been so jazzed up on crack that he never stopped running at all, in which case he was probably in Wyoming by now. But I didn’t think so. He didn’t look in very good shape to me and most of his friends had just been arrested. So my money was on him hiding and staying hid until he was sure the coast was clear.

I saw Max go to the curb and start following it. Scent doesn’t last long on asphalt, nothing to stick to, and the only ground disturbance is kicked up dust and maybe a little vegetation transplanted from the suspect’s shoes to the street. But scent pools along the sides of things, like buildings and retaining walls and curbs. Max moved from tracking to trailing, finding the dregs of Gauges scent locked in by the edge of the sidewalk where it forms the curb. I watched as he moved forward about fifteen feet — stopped — head checked back — turned — picked up the scent — lost it. Then he figured it out and took off across the street. He quartered back and forth over the lawns for about a minute. He took off to the side of a yard and ran through another open gate. I started after him.

He was tracking again.

In the backyard Max hit a multitude of scents. Dog feces, water, garbage spilling over an overstuffed trashcan, breadcrumbs sprinkled around a bird-feeder, flowers and weeds and a cooling barbecue ripe with cooked meat smells. He smelled the rubber of a garden hose, dry food in a small doggy bowl, the metal frame and springs of a trampoline and the sweat stained scent of its nylon fiber mat. There were toys and tools, a lawn mower: each component part’s odor merging with the others to make their scent individually distinct. And the smells of the people that lived there themselves.

Max ignored them all.

He followed the track to the back fence — a four-foot chainlink — hopped over, continued on to the right — jumped another chainlink fence into the neighbor’s yard.

The track grew stronger — fresher.

Max went through another open gate — between two houses bracketed by thick bushes — passed two cars in a driveway catching scent on a door-handle the prey tried to open — crossed the street — getting close now — the scent heavy on the hard surface — riled dust molecules still settling. Excitement bubbled up inside him, but he pushed this away as well. Nothing must be allowed to distract him. He came to a closed gate on a six-foot wooden fence. Max spun — raced back ten feet — charged the fence — leapt high — his front paws and legs