Lead a Horse to Murder Read Online Free PDF Page B

everything I need to ply my trade tucked neatly into a mobile unit. When it came to choosing a lifestyle, I really identified with that old cowboy song, “Don’t Fence Me In.” I’ve never stopped appreciating the feeling of freedom that comes from spending my days making house calls, tooling around in a van outfitted with heat and air-conditioning and running water, not to mention everything I need for performing diagnostic tests, surgery, and even dentistry.
    Most of the time, I pretty much have total control over how I spend my time. Then again, sometimes my cell phone rings and my carefully constructed plans for the day go right out the window.
    Which is why I eyed my phone warily when it began purring just as I was about to get onto the Long Island Expressway. Especially when I glanced at the name and number that appeared on the screen and recognized them immediately.
    I eased off onto the shoulder, a firm believer in the New York State law that forbids talking on cell phones while driving. Max and Lou, wrestling for a primo spot on the seat beside me, looked surprised that we were stopping in such an unlikely spot.
    “Dr. Popper,” I answered crisply.
    “Hi, Dr. Popper.” I couldn’t place the high-pitched voice. “I’m sorry to bother you. You don’t know me. My name’s Kathy Kelly. I baby-sit for the Weinsteins?”
    I knew the Weinsteins well, at least Lindsay Weinstein and her twin toddlers, Justin and Jason. I also knew their German shorthair pointer, King. Almost a year earlier, he’d contracted two extremely serious illnesses that dogs get from ticks, Lyme disease and ehrlichiosis. Thanks to better living through chemistry—meaning wonderfully effective antibiotics like amoxicillin and doxycycline—the spirited pointer was soon playing Frisbee with the boys again.
    “Anyway, Mrs. Weinstein’s at the doctor with Jenny—that’s the new baby—and I’m here alone with the twins,” Kathy went on. “For the last hour or two, King’s been acting really weird. I found a magnet on the refrigerator with your name and number on it. I hope you don’t mind me bothering you like this.”
    “Not at all, Kathy,” I assured her. “It’s really good that you called. Now tell me what’s going on with King.”
    “He keeps trying to throw up, but it’s like nothing’s coming out,” she went on in the same frightened tone. “He keeps looking at his side, and he’s doing strange things like licking the air. He’s also drooling.”
    “Okay, Kathy, you’ve done a great job of describing his symptoms. It sounds to me like King’s got bloat.” I made a point of sounding a lot calmer than I felt. “Stay there with him. I’m heading over to where you are right now. Just keep him quiet, and keep the kids away from him. I should be there in about fifteen minutes, okay?”
    “Okay,” Kathy replied in a reedy voice.
    What I didn’t tell her was that bloat—Gastric Dilatation-Volvulus, or GDV—is one of the most common causes of death in large dogs. Yet most dog owners have never even heard of it. Deep-chested dogs like German shepherds and retrievers are the most vulnerable. The dog’s stomach can literally get twisted between the esophagus and the upper intenstine, trapping fluids, food, and gas inside.
    GDV has to be dealt with fast. It doesn’t take long before the animal’s blood supply gets cut off and toxins build up inside the stomach. It’s not unusual for the dog to go into shock, or even for his stomach to rupture.
    I pulled back onto the road and headed toward the Long Island Expressway. Fortunately, I knew the way— and it was only a ten-minute drive.
    Even before I’d pulled into the Weinsteins’ driveway, their baby-sitter flung open the front door.
    “He’s in here,” Kathy called as I climbed out of my van. “In the kitchen.”
    I left Max and Lou in the van, knowing I’d be coming right back with King. Kathy held the door open for me, ushering me inside. I’d assumed