She has never messed with my schedule like this before. I don’t know whether to be irritated or to laugh at her brazen attempt at forcing a connection that I already explained would never happen.
“What does it say?” Tyler is suddenly beside me, hovering over my shoulder.
I startle and slam my phone against my chest to hide the screen. “Doesn’t matter. I’m here, so let’s do this.” I tuck it into my back pocket as I take a few steps away from him.
Tyler laughs, smoothing the towel over his chest. “Come on, I don’t smell that bad.”
He smells like clean sweat, not bad in the slightest, but I’m not about to admit that.
He looks past me. “Do I, Reed?”
I’d forgotten the kid was here, witnessing this entire mortifying debacle. “I have a busy day ahead of me, so are you ready?” I didn’t intend the snippy tone, but it serves me well in this case.
Tyler reaches for a navy blue T-shirt hanging off the bench press. “I can be ready.” He tugs it over his head, covering his impressive body. “Come on, let me show you around.” He passes me with a secretive smile.
* * *
“This is all …” I search for a word that doesn’t make me look like a preening fool. I can’t find one. “I’ve never seen such attention to dogs before.” Not even the Hatchetts have a system like this in place, and Tyler designed and built it all, with Reed’s help.
The seven-foot-tall fencing that Howie and I saw when we were here last encloses an area of more than an acre around the barn, creating a barrier against wildlife—particularly wolves and moose. Within that enclosure are the individual kennels and a robust agility course for the puppies. Along the outside of the barn are large pens with double kennels, suitable for housing two dogs per, so they can roam and play freely. Each has a name plate for the dog, giving it a personal touch. There are also dogs in individual kennels with lengthy running circle chains. As Tyler walked me through, he explained the two-system approach, and how they choose which living style fits best for each individual dog, based on personality and racing skill.
The wooden kennels themselves are well built, sitting on stable blocks with snug entrances to protect from inclement weather, shields to block the wind, wide roofs that the dogs can sunbathe on, and big overhangs to provide adequate shade.
The wall of clipboards I noticed coming into the barn houses thorough information on everything—medical charts that include not only the basics—age, weight, and vaccination dates—but also weekly checks with detailed notes on everything from massage needs and nail trimming to medications and pressure sores, running and training logs with specific mileage for each dog, bedding changes, molting hair collection, feeding maps, female cycle schedules, injuries, and past fights. There’s also a comprehensive map coding every dog by character, and which dogs prefer their space versus the ones who want to be placed together.
“You track everything.” He’s a veterinarian’s dream.
“We transfer all this information to our computer once a week. I can open up a spreadsheet and show you each dog’s complete history from the time they were born, right down to how many miles they’ve run, every pound they’ve gained and lost, which muscle they’ve pulled, and how long it’s taken for a boil to heal.” There’s pride in Tyler’s voice. “It’s a lot of work, but it’s worth it. It’s how Tero and Anja Rask run their kennel, and how Reed’s father taught him. He takes care of this for me in the summer.”
Mila’s parents. He seems close with all of them. I watch the boy who sits in a lawn chair by the firepit, pulling a brush through Tank’s fur.
“The kid is meticulous with detail. Way more than me. I’m the one who made that mistake.” Tyler nods toward Nala, the now-pregnant lead husky lapping at her water bowl. An unintentional breeding when Tyler marked her cycle down in the wrong column and left her and Tank alone together.
But he owned up to it right away, rather than blame the kid. He’s not one of those men who’s too full of pride to admit his errors.
Another appealing quality that I don’t want to know about.
“Didn’t you say you wanted to breed Tank, anyway?”
“Yeah, but not with her, and not at that time.” His eyebrows draw together with worry.
“So, what are you going to do, then? Sell the puppies?”
“Doubt it, but I don’t have to make any decisions now.” He shakes his head. “I’m getting phone calls from people who somehow got my number and letters in my mailbox from people who found my address. If I didn’t have that gate, I’d have people driving up here daily. Linda Cogsby is looking for a new swing dog. Some Sam guy needs a few team dogs. And remember that guy at the checkpoint? Gary something?”