Dead Cows Talking: Abner Dueck Mysteries, #2

By David Waltner-Toews

In Saskatoon, Canada, a newly graduated veterinarian shoots wildly at a horse in the clinic of the veterinary college. A few miles away, in the middle of a frozen slough, veterinarians find the body of a frozen butcher cradling a cow's head. Nearby, a successful cattle embryo transfer farm has something to hide. Veterinarian Abner Dueck, back in Canada after being expelled from Indonesia, once again finds himself trying to solve problems which the people around him think are none of his business.  

 

Fear of Landing, the first Abner Dueck mystery, was listed by Publishers Weekly as one of the top 10 mysteries and top 100 books of 2008. Margaret Cannon wrote, in The Globe and Mail that "David Waltner-Toews is a genuine polymath. He's a published poet, author of books on subjects as diverse as Mennonite history and exotic animal-to-human diseases. He's a professor of population medicine at the University of Guelph, an epidemiologist, a founder of Veterinarians Without Borders and the Network for Ecosystem Sustainability and Health. In his free time, he's written his first mystery novel, and it's terrific."

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Waltner-Toews
• Release date: Jul 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781777297008

David Waltner-Toews

David Waltner-Toews is an internationally celebrated veterinary epidemiologist, eco-health,  and One Health specialist. He has published more than 20 books of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry

Book preview

The Bad Shot

ANNIE CLOSED HER EYES and drew in a deep breath through her nose. Briefly, the rich, sweet scent of horse sweat and manure was over-whelmed by a gust of iodine disinfectant and cow shit. Then, without warning, the swift, electric jolt of stinging cold and a wave of blistering heat almost brought her to her knees. She leaned on the rifle and panted as a thousand ants crawled under her skin. It was getting worse. She had to tell someone, soon. Someone who would believe her.

But who would listen? They were all such good scientists, waiting for the evidence before acting. But what if she was the evidence they were all waiting for? Would they see her? If you didn’t have a story to make sense of the observations, were you blind to them? Her professors insisted that this disease was not communicable to people. In fact, they doubted whether it was communicable at all. Her father, an unassailable fount of truth, an upstanding citizen who saved horses and bred exotic cattle, would deny everything. She had left tabloid newspapers out at the abattoir for BB to read. He had believed her. But so far, nothing had come of it. Time was running out. How long did she have? She had to get their attention.

Mickey Brunswick, hands on his hips, was standing near the front. She could hear that he asked a question, and the usual tough-guy inflection of his voice, but could not distinguish the words. From behind, he sounded like a belligerent airport announcer.

The small group of first year interns in their clean green coveralls, and the stethoscopes around their necks, were not paying attention to her. They didn’t notice the rifle held snuggly against her leg. If they turned around, like that French intern did just now, they would think she was leaning on the crutch she’d needed these past few weeks as her body wobbled and sagged without warning. 

When she opened her eyes again—how long had it been—minutes?—they were still there, necks craning, gawking like a flock of nervous Indian Runner ducks around the horse and the professor.

Quinny has one last lesson to teach you, Professor Peterson-Sheffield said.

She thought, and it won’t be the lesson you think it is. She leaned forward, the rifle stiff against her thigh, trying to look between the green coveralls and rubber boots flecked with manure.

Sick and lame horses strained to see over the gates of their box-stalls on each side of the walkway. Annie took a deep breath and leaned against a metal stall-gate, felt the wet nose investigating her head. Get in line. I can’t see either, she whispered. The horse snorted and shied away into the pen. One row over, parallel to this, the bovine ward was half empty. No one brought cattle into the clinic any more. Not worth the money for most cows. And for the expensive ones, it wasn’t worth the risk of injury from trucking; the vet had to go to the animal, not the animal to the vet.

Behind her, the wards came to a T-intersection with a large breezeway. Beyond that were offices for clinic staff, professors and graduate students, and the pharmacy. In the other direction, past the cluster of students, sheer, soft sheets of snow billowed past the open doors, the bright sun refracting through the crystalline flakes creating rainbows across the wet concrete. She shivered, then broke into a sweat. A crow bobbed its head and cawed on the paddock fence outside. This, and the sun setting at five in the afternoon could only mean one thing:  Fall was on its way to Saskatoon. Her eyes wandered through the snow out to the ice-crusted, sandy mud of the walkway between the paddocks.

The professor sounded pretentious, pompous even. She knew it was because of his British accent, and because, being a short man, he talked more loudly than he should, but it put her off nonetheless. He was already talking about Quinny as if she weren’t there. They all knew Quinny, the teaching horse, on whom they had practiced their veterinary examination techniques for the past three years. She was a large, endlessly patient horse, a cross-breed with a thoroughbred’s big nose and the heavy body, and the phlegmatic temperament of a Belgian. The first students to work with her had nick-named her Quinny, their diminutive, horse-owner-friendly version of  Equine. They had pushed rubber tubes through her nostrils into her stomach, filed her teeth, and probed with their inexperienced arms deep into her rectum. They knew about equine lameness, Quinny’s shifting gait, and the problem of pain. Having pulled a few all-nighters to prepare for their licensing exams, many of them thought they might even know everything they would need to know about being a vet, or even about life in general. It was a bit late for another lesson.

She was just about to make her move when she saw Sarah bite the inside of her lip, hard, and elbow her way to the front of the crowd, give Mickey an extra, deliberate, unnecessary push to the side, and get down on one knee. Facing the back of the horse, her body pressed against Quinny’s, she pulled herself back up to a crouch, one front leg in her hands, the pastern between her knees. Annie watched as her friend felt the throbbing pulse of the palmar artery, touched the sole and the frog. The sole would be hot to the touch, and Quinny jerked back in pain. Gently Sarah put the foot down and rested her hand on the sweating, quivering muscles of the leg. It’s okay, she whispered, her hand moving slowly up the satiny skin, the tiny flickers of electricity just under the surface, to the neck. She scratched the horse behind the ear. It’s okay.

For a second it was Sarah alone with Quinny, their physical closeness like the brush of lips, and then she stepped away, almost, not quite, embarrassed.

Annie shuddered. She imagined herself as Quinny and a little shiver of happiness ran down her spine. A few months ago, in their final year as undergrad vet students, when they had been on all-night emergency clinic watch, and had looked in on her, Quinny had been in pain then, and they had worried over her. She wasn’t much better now. Sarah stood with her back to the group, avoiding eye contact with her classmates, as the professor continued.

So how does this kind of lameness come about? He looked around.

Mickey crossed his arms across his chest and shifted his weight to one leg. Some misguided bleeding heart fed her too much grain. Or turned her out to pasture too soon last year.

Possible, possible. The professor seemed more anxious than usual to get on with his lesson. Especially a horse that often walks on hard surfaces, or whose caretaker hasn’t properly cared for her feet, or is slightly overweight — the horse being overweight, not the person. He waited for the laugh before continuing. She, the horse, might develop laminitis. Then stress diarrhea. Some horses will go on to disseminated intra-vascular coagulation, shock and death. Maybe those are the lucky ones.

He let that sink in for a few seconds, then began to lead the horse slowly along the breezeway toward the back door. Quinny is not one of the lucky ones. See how she walks? They say it is like walking on eggs, delicately. Must be in a lot of pain. What’s the most humane thing to do? He stopped and looked at the flock trailing after him. What are your options, no, what is your best option, if you know the animal will suffer and the prognosis for recovery is, well, to be honest, nil? 

He continued walking, leading Quinny through the veil of snow to the open space outside the door, the old horse shying slightly as they stepped into the dazzle of light outside, hobbling painfully, slowly, along.

He paused and looked around at them. They all knew what the answer was, but none of them wanted to say it, as if saying something made it more real. He continued. In every veterinary situation you have at least two animals to consider: the patient, and the client. What, in this situation is your ethical obligation to the patient? Does it matter what the client thinks?

She felt faint. He was going on and on and on. She had to move now. Swinging her rifle wildly, side to side, whacking anyone in her way, she cleared a space at the front of the group.

What the fu...!. Mickey yelled as the gun barrel smacked into his belly.

She pointed her rifle at the horse. Her vision blurred, and she wobbled. Before anyone could react, she shot.

The blast hit Quinny between the eyes, the bullet glancing off the bones of the frontal sinus. Startled, screaming, she reared up and then toppled against Peterson-Sheffield, thrashing, angry, confused.

Now, would they listen?

Sarah turned to run toward the pharmacy. I’ll get the blue juice. Somebody hold Quinny down!

Annie felt herself grabbed and thrown her down, her head punched back against the concrete. She rolled over, drawing on strength she never knew she had. She ran.

She could hear Sarah screaming at the pharmacy counter. I need pentobarbital!

As she ran down the breezeway, Annie passed McTavish, their anatomy professor, the one with the annually-changing tousle-haired assistant who always looked like she’d JBF’d. As she pushed open the exit door at the end of the breezeway, she turned. McTavish had picked up her rifle. She saw him shoot Quinny through the ear.  And then the door closed, and there was only the stinging snow, and the ringing in her ears.

When she arrived at her house, but for the fluorescence of snow susurrating along the near-bare sidewalk, all was dark. There was no porch light on, no faint glints of light from a lamp somewhere in the house. Nothing. She had no one. She stood for a moment on the main sidewalk. Where else could she go? Inside, the house was stuffy, heavy with the scents of cat piss and damp dog hair.

Hi guys, she called. What had she done? Her call into the muffled silence brought three skinny cats and two dogs: a hopping, three-legged Spaniel-cross and a Heinz-57 with one eye sewn shut. These were her waifs, her family, surgical exercise animals that, having taught future veterinarians all they had to offer, had been rescued from death row. She wandered into the bedroom and looked up at the horse head on the wall. Sorry, she said. Had to do it. Then she returned to the living room and perched tensely on the armrest of the couch, unable to move, unable to cry. She spoke to the dogs, looking up at her expectantly. Now they will listen. Now I can tell them the whole story, she said. The spaniel wagged his tail.

She heard a noise at the back door. She pushed herself to her feet. Hello?

No one answered. She took a rifle down from the rack on the wall and walked toward the kitchen. She was dizzy, and braced her hand against the doorjamb. The rifle fell from her hand. And then there were strong, long-fingered hands, a thick cloth clapped over her mouth, hard, a bag over her head, and a voice she recognized. And then, nothing.

NOVEMBER

The Head

THE BLOODY T SHIRT clung to the muscles of his back and bunched at the pits as he worked the chainsaw between the head and the top of the spine. He leaned against the body for a moment, and it swung away from him, the chains clanking, so that he almost fell to the concrete floor. His uncle thought he was stupid, but he knew at least right from wrong. He knew that what they had done was evil. The vet called it Mexican food, those tacos, that the Low-German speakers down there learned from their neighbours. But when they fed it to the students and offered him some, BB refused. They said he was just being prejudiced against foreign food. Did they think he didn’t read the papers? Madness.

Then yesterday, they’d brought in another of the special ones, and he’d watched as she wobbled in. She was belligerent, resisting the pull of the ropes, but who wouldn’t be upset under the circumstances? They’d said he could do the kill tomorrow. Today was tomorrow. They had meant later, when they could supervise. They didn’t want her over at the farm where someone might see her. Someone who might talk. But he couldn’t wait. He had sat and watched her for an hour. How beautiful she was! Bumping around the cement-block walls, she was confused, by moments angry then depressed, pressing her head against the wall. He had stepped cautiously into the pen, had leaned against her big warm bulk, scratched her at the back of the head, behind the ears. Her head had swung around, throwing him against the concrete wall. He had slid down to the floor, his back against the wall, first to his haunches, then to his bum. As long as he didn’t move, she left him alone. He had fallen asleep there, and awoken with his back aching, his mouth and nose full of the sour stench of feces and straw. She was down now, bellowing. He’d pushed himself to his feet, using the wall as a brace against his back. Scratching her between the eyes one more time, he pulled the captive bolt gun from the harness on the wall, pressed it against her forehead, and, closing his eyes, pulled the trigger. She flopped over to her side.

He pulled the knife from his belt, tested the blade with his thumb, worked it a few minutes on the sharpening stone that he also had hung from the belt, then stepped out of the pen to the crude desk next to the front door where he kept his strop. Stroking the blade against the leather, he looked once more at the headlines in the newspaper. This time he would not let them get away with it. He would make sure. Back in the pen, he used the knife to poke slits just behind her achilles tendons, pulled down the chains, forced the hooks through the slits, and pulled on the chains, heaving against them, hauling her up by the ankles. Every muscle in his arms and back and legs complained, straining against the weight.

He worked methodically, carefully. Then came the long slit through hide and fascia, tying off the esophagus and the rectum, letting the steaming offal slop into the rusty wheelbarrow.

Now, with one last screaming cut with the chainsaw, the bits of meat and cartilage and spinal cord spraying into his face, he severed the head. Finally, exhausted, he slid down to his haunches again on the wet concrete, cradling the head in his arms. He needed to keep moving. Setting down the head, he went to the tap and hosed down the floor; the bloodied water streams clotted with hair and bits of offal, slowly gurgled down the floor drain nearby. He pulled his parka from the hook next to the door, picked up the head, and looked around once more — the glossy green walls were splattered with blood and excrement; he’d have to give the place a proper cleaning once all this was settled. His eyes rested a moment on the larger-than-for-humans door where the poor, suffering beast had entered last night.

His stomach churned and he felt like crying, but he needed to do this. Now. He’d already called the vet college about the deer. He would be there to meet them with the evidence. It would all be done before JW knew. He would tell his uncle he’d cooked up the head himself. Show him the old skull he kept at the cabin. JW would never know.

He could barely get the door pushed open against the white blasting of snow. He stood for a moment, suddenly exhausted. The steamy air from inside the cement block room plumed out past him, mixing with the snow into a bone-chilling shroud. He couldn’t see the road. He lifted a leg over and climbed on to his old snowmobile, resting the head between his legs. It wouldn’t start. He shifted the head and looked down, brushed away some snow from the fuel tank. The cap was off. Probably had water in it now. Snow and ice. He was sure he’d closed it properly, but a guy forgets. It happens. He could walk. Wasn’t that far, and he could head straight across the marsh. He heaved the bulky head up to get a better grip, put down his head, and started walking, through the wave after wave of high-pitched whistling white. 

The Problem of Owners

THE MORNING AFTER THE blizzard dawned brilliantly clear, bitingly cold. Abner Dueck dropped by the veterinary college to see if there were any calls they wanted him to pick up. He was on contract with them, doing calls on an as-needed basis, and they supplied him with drugs, a place to park his truck and plug it in on the coldest days, and a small office. New Canaan farms, about an hour north of Saskatoon, had some embryo donor cows they wanted checked to make sure their ovaries were cycling properly. Could he take the call? Peter Funk, the vet who usually serviced