Pierce Carlton took the next exit onto Highway 14, heading to Fort Collins. He wondered what he’d gotten himself into by agreeing to look for Salem, a black female shepherd who might or might not be missing. He’d been planning to come back to Colorado anyway; at least that was what he told himself. In truth he should have come back for a visit a long time ago. This was just a valid reason to do so.
In theory, handlers and dogs weren’t supposed to get too attached. He’d snorted the first time he’d heard that because how could one not?
Still, this dog had been last seen in the community of Arrowhead outside of Fort Collins. Hence his stop here. If he remembered right, a small café was along this main boulevard that had absolutely the best apple pie you could buy. He pulled up to the café called Marge’s and walked in. If ever a name could make you think of apple pie, it was a name like that. He hopped on in and stopped and smiled. Right in front of him was a large glass case with lots of what looked to be homemade baked desserts.
His stomach growled.
A portly woman walked toward him. “Well, that’s a sound I like to hear.”
He looked at her in surprise. “Please don’t tell me that you can hear my stomach from all the way over there,” he joked.
She smiled and nodded. “My ears are trained for that. Come on in and take a seat. We’ll get some food in that belly.”
But he didn’t want to leave the glass case in front of him. “What’s the deal with all these treats?”
“Well, they’re for sale,” she said. “Is that what you mean?”
“Are they fresh-baked? Home-baked? Or brought in from a city somewhere?”
“I bake all my own pies here,” she said proudly. “I’m Aunt Marge.” She held out a big beefy arm and a rotund muscly hand.
He gave it a good shake and knew she did the baking herself from the strength of those arms alone. “So is there real food too, or do I just eat apple pie for the entire meal?”
“Nope, you’re gonna sit down and have a good-size burger and some fries, and then we’ll give you a piece of pie to top it off.”
He hadn’t been terribly hungry when he walked in, but just the sound of that made his mouth water. Obligingly he went to the table she pointed out and sat down. Within seconds he had a hot cup of coffee in front of him. “What brings you into town?” she asked.
“What makes you think I’m new?” he asked, looking around. “I used to come through here often, promising I’d stop in to test the gossip about the best pies ever, but I never did. And I haven’t been through this town in many years.”
“This is a small community. I know every person who lives here. The rest are mostly passing through.”
“Well, if they know about all those baked goods up under that glass,” he said, “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if everybody goes out of their way to come here.”
She chuckled. “Enough that I make a fine living here,” she said with a smirk, and she disappeared into the back kitchen. He could hear her talking to somebody and wondered if it was a mom-and-pop place. She came back out soon with cutlery and a glass of water. “You never answered my question.”
“I’m tracking down a dog,” he said.
“Purebred? For breeding?”
Surprised by that line of questioning, he shook his head. “No, she’s a War Dog, shipped home with her handler. He ended up going to rehab and had multiple surgeries, then his wife left him. Since he can’t live on his own, the dog got lost somewhere in all that.”
“Pete Lowery,” she said abruptly.
Startled, he look up at her. “Sorry?”
“Are you looking for Pete Lowery’s dog, Salem?”
He frowned, pulled up his phone, checked the notes and said, “Yes, I am.” He twisted to look up at her. “Do you know where the dog is?”
“It attacked somebody,” she said, staring at him hard. He didn’t know what she was looking for, but her gaze searched his, as if to see which way he would go on the issue.
His heart sank. “Seriously?”
She nodded, her face grave. “I’m not exactly sure what happened, but she bit a man in the leg,” she said. “She might still be down at the police security yard, locked up,” she said. “There was some talk about putting her down, but I haven’t heard the outcome on that.”
“Who could I talk to about it?”
“You’ll have to talk to the sheriff,” she said. “Give him about a half hour, and he’ll probably pop in here for coffee and pie.” And, with a smirk, she left again.
Pierce sat here, slowly stirring his black coffee to help it cool and wondered what would make a dog like that attack someone. Most likely a scenario where the dog was cornered and felt threatened or somebody he cared about was threatened. Pierce frowned, thinking about that until Aunt Marge came back out with a heaping plate of burger and fries. Curious, he asked, “Do you know the story behind the dog attack?”
“Something to do with Pete’s brother, I think,” she said. “Rob said the dog didn’t do anything wrong, but two guys were just talking to him, and apparently the shepherd took a dislike to one of them and attacked him.”
“Dogs often see a threat we don’t quite understand,” Pierce said in a neutral voice.
“I don’t know all the details,” she said with a shrug, walking over to the counter, returning with mustard and ketchup for him.
He nodded his thanks and picked up a fry and crunched it. He loved crispy fries. And these were hot and tasty. He dumped ketchup on his plate and proceeded to plow through the fries. When he was almost done, he picked up the burger and slowly worked his way through the beefy sandwich.
The meal was excellent. He’d come back just for the food. Aunt Marge returned, refilled his coffee and his water, but she didn’t stop to talk this time. A couple other customers came and went, so it was steady but not terribly busy. Pierce was just about done with his burger, putting the last of it into his mouth, when a sheriff’s car drove up. Pierce wondered at the timing. The sheriff was a bit early today apparently. Aunt Marge greeted him as he sat down and poured him a cup of coffee, then pointed over at Pierce and said, “He needs to talk to you about Salem.”
The sheriff snorted. “If there was ever a dog that deserved a bullet, it’s her,” he said. He looked straight at Pierce and said, “If you come to collect her, you’re too late. Somebody already stole her from the yard.”
Aunt Marge gasped. “What? Now who’d do that?”
Peirce studied the sheriff’s face. “Any idea who or when?”
“A couple months back,” he said. “And, no, we have no clue who. Cut the fence and let her free. Hope they took her out back and put a bullet between her eyes. That’s all she’s good for.”
Aunt Marge nodded in agreement. “So true. Last thing we need around here is dogs attacking innocent people.”
Or rather people attacking dogs, Pierce thought to himself. But no use getting into that discussion here and now. Not until he knew the full story. But there were two things he did know: men attacked others without provocation, and dogs only attacked out of need.
Pierce highly doubted the dog would get an honest hearing with the sheriff though. That man had already made up his mind.
