Murders of a Feather

Chapter One

Cupid’s waiting for you, Dr. Kate, Mari, my veterinary technician, said.

Do you have to rub it in? I asked. It was the last half of January, and Valentine’s Day loomed next month. I’d resigned myself to spending it alone with my dog, hiding out on my couch eating a frozen dinner for one.

Mari shook her head of black, glossy curls. No, I mean Cupid is waiting for you in exam room two.

Cupid is my patient?

Yep. But there aren’t any arrows left in his quiver.

Go potty, Cupid. Go potty.

This looks like fun. Cindy, our receptionist, leaned against the treatment room door staring at the two of us, as crisp as we were wrinkled. Crowded with banks of cages, stainless-steel work tables, microscopes, and counters covered with diagnostic machines, this area was the heart of the Oak Falls Animal Hospital.

On a leash next to me trotted a slim Doberman pincher interested in anything but taking a leak. He’d come in for a suspected bladder infection. We needed a urine sample, but so far we had been unsuccessful. Mari, dressed in gray scrubs, followed the patient with a stainless-steel bowl, ready to catch a sample at the first sign of a leg lift, or a squat, as I marched him across the room. We’d been playing follow-the-leader throughout our lunch hour begging him to go.

You’re welcome to try, I told Cindy. It’s snowing outside, and his owner said this tough Dobie hates getting his feet wet. We’d been at this for fifteen minutes, and I was ready to put Cupid back in his run.

No thank you, Cindy answered. You couldn’t get them to agree to a catheterized sample?

No such luck, Mari chimed in. Wait…

We all stared at the handsome black-and-tan dog as he paused, then lifted his leg and aimed for the end corner of the stainless-steel cages—a favorite spot for our male doggie patients.

Slick as a snake, Mari intervened. Cupid piddled his stream into the sanitized bowl, a direct hit. Straight shot, she commented, and more than enough. Hooray!

Cupid looked up, flexed his back legs like he was digging up dirt a couple of times and probably wondered what all the fuss was about.

Tell the owner he can pick him up anytime, I said, while opening the dog run door. We’ll have preliminary results in about thirty minutes. The culture and sensitivity will take the lab five to ten days.

Will do. Cindy started to leave then stopped. I’m going to miss you guys while I’m gone, but not enough to stay here.

Mari and I exchanged glances. Cindy was leaving for a week’s vacation, spending the time relaxing on a warm Florida beach with her hubby and extended family. I hoped things would run smoothly while she was gone. Oak Falls Animal Hospital booked both clinic and house call appointments, keeping me super busy. I wondered about a stranger stepping into Cindy’s sneakers for the week.

Think positive, Mari commented when I confessed my fears to her. It’s only seven days and seven nights. It will be over before you know it.

Of course she was right. Cindy had proven herself a wonderful office manager, juggler of appointments, and fountain of good advice. Her job came with plenty of stress. Pleasing the public was tiring. I couldn’t blame her for wanting to get away from the Hudson Valley during the winter. So far we’d had sun, snow, ice, sleet, rain, and golf ball-sized hailstones thrown at us by Mother Nature in the brief new year. Currently, a blast of arctic air that arrived late the previous night forced most residents to huddle inside.

Once caught up on my clinic notes, I moseyed over to my office and sat down in front of the computer. The cubbyhole-sized room, painted a restful cream color, was my retreat. In a corner lay the temperamental hospital cat, Mr. Katt, slumbering on his bed. He’d deposited his squeaky toy on my chair. I tossed it to him, but he didn’t bother to acknowledge it.

The screensaver scrolled through several photos of gorgeous places I hadn’t been. Sunbathing by the ocean sounded wonderful.

My train of thought was interrupted when I saw a stray potato chip wedged against the V on my keyboard. I absentmindedly popped it in my mouth.

Since I had no hubby and no boyfriend and no prospects, I wondered again what kind of Valentine’s Day I would have when Mari called out, Dr. Kate. Do you need a fecal sample, too?

That could only mean one thing. While I was musing about Valentine’s Day, my Cupid had taken a dump.

Our busy morning passed quickly, but during lunchtime Cindy cautioned us about the afternoon schedule.

Packed with house calls, she told us. Plus I booked two drop-offs who needed to be seen.

A drop-off appointment meant the owner left their pet with us, and we basically saw them when we could, sometimes at the end of the day. That ensured they received veterinary care even when we technically didn’t have any available appointments. I tried not to let any of my patients be without my help if humanly possible. This meant many late nights for my staff and me.

I hope the house call appointments have plowed their driveways, I called out to Cindy’s back.

Your next appointment is here, Mari texted me. Meet you in exam room one.

After powering down my computer I stood up, then ran the pet hair roller that had a treasured spot on my desk across my coat. Although Cupid was a shorthaired Dobie, he shed an amazing amount of black-and-tan fur on my white doctor’s coat.

I didn’t think that was what they meant by being touched by Cupid.

Quickly checking in the employee bathroom that I looked presentable, I dipped both hands in water and slicked down my straight blond hair, some of which had escaped a tight ponytail. Nothing could be done about the pale makeup-free face that stared back at me. My friends sometimes told me I looked a little like a young Meryl Streep. Today I resembled a tired version of Meryl Streep who had recently crawled out from under a log.

With a sigh I swiped my lips with ChapStick, slipped my stethoscope around my neck, and walked toward the exam rooms.

Pausing outside exam room one, I took a breath before knocking and entering. Mari stood next to the stainless-steel exam table, her back obscuring the view of my patient. When she stepped away, I caught a glimpse of my second surprise of the day.

So who is this cutie? I asked. I normally didn’t see pigs, but Cindy must have felt sorry for this client, who also brought his dog to us.

It’s Porky, our mini potbellied pig. The man who spoke rested his hand on the young piglet’s gray-and-white back. He just turned twelve weeks old.

So, you know how some people resemble their pets? The owner’s nose had a definite upturn at the end. His bright blue eyes stared into mine, as though he knew what I was thinking and dared me to say anything.

How long have you had him? I asked. From where I stood, there was no ambiguity as to Porky’s gender. I slipped on a pair of exam gloves as we spoke.

The wife and I got him as a baby. He’s good as gold. House-trained, smart as can be—but he’s got this lump here. With his forefinger he indicated the middle of Porky’s belly. My buddy said to put a quarter over it and duct tape it.

Now I’m as big a fan of duct tape as everyone else, but in this instance it wouldn’t do any good. I immediately knew what was wrong. Porky had an umbilical hernia. Pressing gently I palpated to feel if any loops of intestine had slid into the swelling. Hernias aren’t uncommon in pigs. This was a moderate one so far, caused by a deficit or weakness in the abdominal wall. Since Porky had not been neutered, I also checked for an inguinal hernia. His immature porcine package felt totally normal.

As I explained an umbilical hernia to the client, I also said there was only one option to fix the problem: surgery. As the piglet got bigger and put on weight this hernia would continue to swell. A neuter was also in order so their well-behaved baby wouldn’t develop nasty hormonal behavior accompanied by very stinky urine.

Plenty of people with pet pigs told me he had to be neutered. That’s what I figured, the owner said. We’re okay with that. The wife and I love this little guy.

I also had a fondness for these happy, intelligent creatures. In fact, I’d spent several summers working at a rescue farm during vet school and assisted at piglet hernia repairs with my large-animal vet professor. Because of Porky’s small size, I was comfortable doing the surgery, but I preferred to refer him to the nearby large-animal practice.

Mari, can you have Cindy call the Hudson Valley Animal Clinic and Equine Center and find out when they can see Porky? If they were half as busy as we were, it might be a month or longer.

While I waited for an answer I continued my exam, taking a moment to scratch the piglet on his snout. His coarse-hair coat was even and healthy, his lungs and heart normal. Porky poked his nose under my hand like a cat wanting to be petted again.

He does that to me all the time, the owner said.

As I chatted about the proper feeding and husbandry of potbellied pigs, Mari interrupted. Sorry, Dr. Kate. They’ve got one doctor out on maternity leave and a second doc who broke his wrist skiing. They won’t have any openings for elective surgery for another three months.

I’m not sure this guy can wait that long, I said. My palpations had revealed quite an opening in the abdominal wall. Let me make some phone calls, I told the owner while absentmindedly stroking the piggy. Worst case scenario, we can do it here.

Thanks, Dr. Kate. You don’t know how much this means to us.

The owner was wrong. I did have an inkling of how much he loved Porky and Porky loved him.

When he leaned over to pick up his pet he got a big wet porcine kiss.

Which was one more kiss than I’d had in a while.

Chapter Two

The rumble of the hospital F-150 truck downshifting made me miss the last part of Mari’s discussion of her Valentine’s Day plans as we drove toward our final house call of the afternoon. She and her partner had reservations for dinner at an Italian restaurant, then arranged to meet up with friends for karaoke at the Red Lion Pub.

You have to book early or you’re out of luck, she reminded me. Why don’t you come along? We’d love to have you join us.

Being a third wheel was not my idea of fun, so I fibbed a little. I’ve got a friend from school who might be in the neighborhood, but thanks for the offer.

We bounced over a rut in the road. Our seat hinges squeaked in protest.

Mari looked up from the office laptop and asked, Who is that?

Pinned to the wall I blurted out my old lab partner’s name. Danny Malone. He’s just a friend, so don’t get excited. I knew my staff wanted to see me happy. Maybe this would tide them over until the Ides of March, but I doubted it.

Before Mari could follow with a million questions I said, Which pet are we looking at today? It was Friday, and we were on our way to Maple Grove Farm, a rescue facility run by a retired NYC power couple. I’d seen several of their animals over the last few months.

Ahh. Let me see. It looks like we’re checking out some puppies, born to one of those puppy mill dogs they rescued. We’re set to do first exams and vaccines, and one of the puppies is limping.

Puppy mill females were of use to breeders only as long as they could have puppies. The females are forced to have litter after litter until they are basically worn out. Here at the Maple Grove Farm, they gave happy lifetime homes to animals that desperately needed rescuing.

Ashley and her husband do such needed work, I said, slowing down as we approached their driveway. The clank of our chains jangled harshly as we crossed over a spot of cleared asphalt. Pine branches weighed down with recent snow slapped the side of the truck. The new scratches would join all the other scratches. A sharp turn, and we were ready to climb the small hill leading to the farm. Quite a menagerie lived here, including goats, horses, donkeys, and a mule. On the small-animal side were multiple dogs, cats, assorted hamsters, and other pocket pets.

The tires dug into the snow, moving farther up the rise with minimum sliding and slipping, before breaking through to the fields above. Mari texted Ashley Kaminsky to let her know we were here. As we passed the barn I noticed a mobile veterinary truck parked outside.

Who’s that? I asked, pulling up to the farmhouse and parking parallel to the front walkway.

Mari craned her neck and read Hudson Valley Animal Clinic and Equine Center.

Good, I said, digging out my medical bag from the back seat. Maybe after we’re done, I can ask them about Porky the piglet.

Mari opened the passenger side door and secured the laptop computer into a carrying case. Look out. We’ve got quite a welcoming committee today.

Sure enough, a pack of dogs woofed and wagged their tails, running to the truck to greet us. Standing on the wide wraparound porch, Ashley waved a greeting, one foot sporting a black orthopedic device. I waved back, sure that my words of greeting would be inaudible, as I waited for the barking to tamp down. The renovated farmhouse combined country charm with modern efficiency. Running a rescue farm had been the couple’s longtime dream.

A deep woof next to me begged for attention. The vocalist turned out to be a shaggy shepherd mix named Tommy who stood by my side, his bushy tail swinging. He’d been treated for a terrible ear infection not long ago and had stayed at the hospital with us for a few days. Even in discomfort he’d been a cheerful, cooperative patient. Now, cured of a persistent mixed bacterial and yeast infection deep in the ear canal, he wriggled and wagged his greeting.

I bent down to say hi, softly petting his head and sneaking a quick peek into his thick, floppy ears. No funky smell was a good sign.

Meanwhile, Mari called the pooches to follow her up the stairs. With a whirl of energy, some sprinted ahead, while others preferred the gradual graded ramp built for the older and three-legged dogs. All were happy and enjoying their second chance at life, thanks to this well-run rescue farm.

My assistant and the dogs disappeared inside. A self-proclaimed dog person, Mari was in her element.

Come on in, Ashley called out on her way to the kitchen. I brushed my boots off on the doormat then left them in the mudroom. A pair of loafers stashed in my backpack provided me with clean shoes. Once shod, I joined the crowd in the kitchen.

Coffee? our client asked. Although Ashley was worth a small fortune and had the money to wear designer clothes, she preferred well-worn jeans and a baggy sweatshirt.

Thanks, for the offer. Maybe a quick one? How many puppies do we have to examine?

Only five survived. The mommy dog escaped while in heat and those dreadful puppy farm owners weren’t happy about it. They dumped her on the side of a road, but someone saw them and brought her to our rescue. She’s the sweetest golden retriever, considering all she’s been through. Ashley made a move off the chair. Let me get you that coffee.

Mari jumped up. Wait. I’ll pour. I see you still have your orthopedic boot on. You need to take it easy. The couple had created a fancy espresso/coffee/tea bar at the end of the gray-and-white granite countertop. Stainless-steel appliances shone next to their cobalt blue French enamel stove.

Ashley made a noise of disgust, focusing on the black shiny device clamped onto her lower leg.

I hate this thing. Both my husband and my doctor have confined me to the house for ten days until my ankle begins to heal properly. Last week I tripped over something going out to the barn and reinjured it. That’s the third or fourth time. I am unbelievably clumsy.

Do you have someone helping you? I asked. Besides feeding all the animals, there were stalls to muck out and medications to be given, not to mention checking on the livestock in the barn.

Ashley nodded, her shoulder-length hair bobbing. I’ve got our farm manager full-time, and my neighbor’s oldest daughter is coming over after school to help with the horses. On the weekends the volunteers take over.

Well, if there’s anything we can do, let us know, I said. By the way, what are the large-animal vets doing here?

We just acquired twin goat rescues, and of course they’re both pregnant. I asked the large-animal vets to come out and do ultrasounds, so I don’t have any unpleasant surprises. She laughed at that, as if she didn’t have enough surprises in her life. They’re also getting wellness checks.

Coffee cup drained, I felt the blast of caffeine energy. Mari, have you got the vaccines with you?

She held up our refrigerated traveling case. Ready when you are, Doc. Ashley, can you point the way?

Straight down that hallway. They’re in the back room on the right with the door that says ‘Beware of Puppies,’ Ashley told us. I played with them this morning, she added. Mommy dog is over here taking a break. She pointed to a white-faced golden retriever with wavy hair, who obviously had been nursing for a while.

Okay. We’re going in.

Like the rest of the downstairs, all the farmhouse floors that looked like wide wooden planks were actually tile. During renovation Ashley made sure all the surfaces were pet cleanup friendly. Several cats strolled along with us, unconcerned by the dogs milling around.

When we opened the door, a symphony of high-pitched puppy yips forced me to use hand signals to communicate with my veterinary assistant.

The large room had been cordoned off into two spaces by temporary fencing, for ease of cleaning. Five playful puppies scrambled over each other as they ran to get petted. Each pup had a different-colored collar, making identification easier. In this case it wasn’t necessary.

Each puppy looked completely different from its sibling. Truly a mixed bouquet of cuteness.

Superfecundation at its finest, I commented as Mari put our supplies on a small table. In front of me the furry babies, some with ears that were up, some with floppy ears, and others with curled-up tails stared at me. The rainbow array of coat colors made me smile. Only one resembled their golden retriever mom.

Super what?

Superfecundation. It happens when a dog in heat has had several boyfriends at the same time, to say it politely. These puppies all have the same mom, but there could well be multiple different daddies.

So that’s what they call it. Yep. A friend of mine’s female Dalmatian jumped a fence when she was in heat after they bred her to a champion Dalmatian stud. She delivered seven spotted puppies and one that was dark brown and long-haired. The owner had DNA tests done so she could verify which ones were pure Dalmatians.

So, obviously the brown one wasn’t.

Right. But neither were five of the spotted ones. She ended up with only two pure-blooded Dalmatians out of the entire litter.

Bummer for her. But we don’t have to worry about any of that with these cutie-pies. Who’s first?

Mari handed me a gray short-haired male with a broad head. Maybe some pit bull in this one?

Time will tell. The little guy licked my face as I tried to listen to his heart. I had to hand it to Ashley. The entire litter was very socialized, friendly, and healthy. After I gave the pups their first set of shots, we stayed for about twenty minutes, making sure none of them showed any rare allergic reaction to their vaccines. My spirits definitely lifted with this full-immersion puppy therapy. It’s impossible to be down when surrounded by puppies.

By the time we got up off the floor, both Mari and I had a dusting of puppy fuzz and debris on our scrub pants.

Had your fill of puppy breath? I asked my friend.

Never, she answered with a big grin.

As we walked down the hallway toward the kitchen, I said, While you get the puppy kits and exam paperwork ready, I’m going to take a quick trip to the barn and see if the large-animal doc needs any help. I’ll text you when I’m done.

No worries, Mari answered, plucking a clump of hair from her scrub top. I’ll check in with Cindy. I hope we’re finished for the day.

We updated Ashley on each of her puppies, then I excused myself. I’m going to head out to your barn and see if that large-animal vet needs any help. Any idea who is working out there?

Ashley thought for a moment. I’m pretty sure it’s Dr. Mike. His wife just had twins. If he looks tired, then he’s the one, she laughed.

Okay. I’ll be back soon.

I took my jacket off the mudroom coatrack, placed my shoes in the backpack, and slipped into my green rubber boots. Now outfitted, I left for the barn. I was very familiar with it, having helped Ashley gentle a wild mustang adoptee last month.

Out in the corral I said hi to two horses, including Lobo the mustang. A donkey and a few sheep meandered over, looking for the apple treats I always carried in my coat pocket.

Later, guys. Above me the sky darkened, intensifying the cold. I left the animals pulling hay out of the hayrack and opened the barn door. Hello, I called.

Over here, came a somewhat muffled voice. Just in time.

Sitting in the hay in one of the large pens wearing a wrinkled white coat over a sweater was a brown-haired man with straw on his shoulder. The large-animal vet, I assumed. A very pregnant nanny goat was tethered in front of him.

He looked up at me, his glasses sliding down his nose.

Hey. I’m Dr. Turner. Oak Falls Animal Hospital. I’m doing a puppy wellness house call and thought I’d drop in and see if you needed any help.

He started to answer when the mother goat gave a grunt, and out popped a sleek, wet goat head. I noticed movement in the hay nearby. Two more kids lay curled up together, slick and new.

In the far corner stood a portable ultrasound machine, safely stowed in its case.

I gingerly knelt down, checking first for any piles of goat yuck lying around. How many? I asked.

We’ve got a trifecta here, he laughed. Those two were already out when I got here. Let’s see. He pushed his glasses back onto his nose. Lost a contact and waiting for a replacement. These glasses are a pain. The goat bleated again, so he started talking to her in a calm deep voice. You’re almost finished, mommy. Just one more to go.

She must have listened because the baby’s head moved forward.

Do you assist at this point? I asked. My large-animal professor didn’t recommend intervening unless absolutely necessary.

Good advice. He leaned nearer the nanny goat. I visually check for tears or inertia, or anything unusual. Otherwise, goats rarely need any help.

As he slid closer, the mom made another goaty noise and the baby slid out, feet with tiny black hooves neatly tucked up. In an instant we were dodging slime.

The vet’s arms and hands—clear up to and over the elbow—were covered by his work gloves. I wasn’t as prepared. I scuttled behind him and stood up.

Looks like you’re good here. I heard the baby goats begin to bleat.

Thanks, Dr. Turner, he said. His grin was warm and friendly. The mother goat moved toward her babies, tossing hay in the air that landed on the large-animal veterinarian’s head.

Call me Kate, I told him.

Mike, he answered. Say, if you’re going back to the house, tell Ms. Kaminsky I’ll text her a full report with pictures in a few minutes. I want to finish checking out this little guy and clean up a bit before using my cell phone.

He held up both hands covered with various liquids, a big smile on his face. Can’t beat bringing a little one into the world.

Agreed. I loved working in the cow barns in school, I confessed, so this is a fun change of pace for me. These days I’m mostly small animals and pocket pets.

Three rambunctious baby goats interrupted our conversation butting his hands looking to nurse. He gently guided them to the mom feeding station.

Nice meeting you, I told him. Got to run.

Thanks. See you around, he said before turning back to his goat patients.

I stopped at the barn door, almost forgetting my ulterior motive. Oh. How’s your elective surgery schedule? I’ve got an umbilical hernia and neuter in a mini potbellied piglet that’s about twelve weeks old I’m trying to send to your surgeons.

His eyes squinted at the hanging light above my head. In the harsh light he looked to be in his early thirties.

Call the office and check, but from what I hear, we’re booking elective surgery out almost three months.

This piggie may not be able to wait, I answered. There is a large deficit in the abdominal wall, and he’s got about a two-inch umbilical swelling already. A stray hen wandered over and pecked at my boot.

If you need some help, call me, Mike said. "Hey. I’ve got a deal for you. I’ll come over and assist in exchange for you seeing a bunch of barn cats at my client’s stable. I’ll text my cell number to your office.