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RETTA AND I WENT DIRECTLY from the puppy mill to the Bonner County Sheriff’s office to report Kurst’s deplorable treatment of his dogs. When we pulled into a parking spot, the question arose as to what to do with the dog Retta had bought in a moment of temporary insanity. We hadn’t even brought along a cage, so the puppy climbed around the car, including over me, whining at the new environment he didn’t understand and therefore feared.
“You can’t take that dog inside,” I told Retta. “As it is you’re going to have to fumigate your car.”
Even she had to admit it wasn’t a good idea to take a possibly verminous animal into the sheriff’s office. “I’ll wrap him in the old blanket I keep in the back for Styx,” she said. “I think he’ll be okay if he’s swaddled in something that smells like dog.”
Her idea seemed to work. The pup sniffed the blanket, whimpered once, and settled in for a nap.
Because we’d worked with him before, Sheriff Wade Idalski knew we were legitimate investigators. When told the reason for our visit, he called in the animal control officer for the county, who joined us to look at the photos I’d taken. Having already reviewed Michigan’s animal abuse laws, I knew Kurst was breaking a lot of them. My pictures showed stacked cages barely large enough for the dogs to stand in, food dishes caked with gunk, water pans empty or knocked over, lactating females so weak they could hardly lift their heads, and a few puppies with obvious but apparently untreated eye and skin problems. They’d been caged away from the other dogs in a dark, drafty corner of the shed, Kurst’s way of quarantining them until they either recovered or didn’t. I’d also come across a mound near the pens I suspected contained the remains of dogs that had died of neglect or worse.
The experience had been pure horror. I wished I could un-see the images of two dozen animals so weak they made almost no sound when I approached. Not one showed any sign of hope for the future, and my impulse had been to set them all free then and there. That would have been a mistake. Instead I’d collected evidence that would bring Kurst before the full force of the law.
Idalski, who had a photo of his wife, two kids, and a German shepherd wearing a cheerful green bandana set prominently on his desk, was as upset as we were. “If nothing else,” he told us, “we can use the new abuse law to keep the guy from owning animals for at least five years. By then all the shelters in the state will have him on their Do Not Adopt list.”
I drove Retta’s car back to Allport so she could hold the puppy, whose wriggles had been refreshed by his nap. From the way she cuddled him, I guessed she was thinking of keeping the dog. That was, in my opinion, a bad idea. Her Newfoundland, Styx, was a hundred pounds of hair and slobber with no sense of personal space. All by himself he was equivalent to unruly triplets. I couldn’t imagine adding a puppy to the mix.
“The shelter isn’t far out of our way,” I said. “We should drop the little guy off so they can check him out.” The Big Woods Animal Shelter served both Bonner and Millden Counties, so it was located near the boundary line. I hoped once Retta was separated from the puppy she’d realize she didn’t need another dog.
“That won’t be necessary.” She used her stubborn tone, keeping her eyes on the playful animal.
Dredging up what little I knew on the subject of dogs, I tried logic. “Don’t puppy mill dogs carry diseases, like kennel cough? You wouldn’t want Styx exposed to that.”
“No.” Retta hated admitting I might be right about anything, but the critter was in need of a flea treatment and worming, just for starters.
As the puppy stretched upward and licked her face, I said, “When they get permission to seize the dogs, they’ll take them to the shelter. That little guy could be back with his mom by tomorrow.”
Her reply was typical Retta. “I’ll be his mom once I know he’s okay.”
“Retta—”
“He’ll be a friend for Styx, so he won’t be lonely when I’m out solving murders.”
Logic was useless when she used that tone of voice. Retta’s decision had been made.
