Strike Dog by Joseph Heywood Page B

where Mormon is cut by the forest service road, but you’ve got to step on it, Chewy. I just had a call from my command and I have to get somewhere posthaste.”
    â€œSit tight,” the biologist said. “Neither of us wants the first case of you-know-what in the state to be on our watch.” Last year Michigan had sold 800,000 hunting licenses, and this money, and that spent by hunters, remained a major plus in the state’s crippled economy. Even so, there were fewer hunters every year. Not long ago the state was selling more than 1.5 million licenses every year.
    The biologist was there in less than thirty minutes, his face red with excitement and nerves. Service led him back to where he had parked earlier and walked him to the deer, which had not moved. They stood six feet away and Beal observed for a couple of minutes until he shook his head and said, “Still in its winter coat.”
    â€œWhat do you want to do?” Service asked.
    â€œWell, if it’s you-know-what, the animal hasn’t started to waste. He’s thin, but coming out of winter, that’s not abnormal. But we need to play this safe. You want to put it down?”
    Service took out his 40-caliber SIG Sauer and walked over to the deer. Beal told him to wait, ran back to his truck, and returned quickly with a blue plastic tarp and a box of disposable latex gloves.
    â€œNot the brain,” Beal said. “Pop the heart. I want the brain and spinal column tissue in good shape. And don’t put him down in the water. Let’s limit blood loss just to be safe.”
    Beal waded into the water beside the deer and poked it with a stick, but the animal refused to move. Finally he had to put both hands on its back haunches and shove. Only then did it reluctantly stumble up to higher ground, its ears finally perking up, its movement still clumsy and uncoordinated.
    Service took aim and fired. The animal collapsed, kicked once, lay still.
    The biologist handed him latex gloves, and the two of them pulled the animal onto the tarp and dragged it back to the biologist’s truck, where they loaded it in the bed.
    â€œYou gonna send it to a lab?” Service asked. The state wildlife laboratory was in Rose Lake, just north of Lansing.
    â€œAfter I take a good look for myself. Let’s don’t get too many bowels in an uproar over this,” the biologist said. “There are several diseases that present similar symptoms, and coming out of winter yards, most deer are not at their best.”
    Service knew the biologist was trying to think positively.
    â€œWell, if it turns out to be bad news, we’ve at least got a governor who won’t sit on her ass,” the biologist added. “Lori’s got the best interests of sportsmen and resources at the center of things.”
    Service shared the biologist’s opinion. Despite Republicans calling her Limousine Lori, the governor was a lifelong hunter and sportswoman. Shortly after taking office, Governor Timms had transferred responsibility for the inspection of commercial put-and-take game farms with captive elk, deer, and more exotic animal populations from the department of agriculture to the DNR. It previously had been the DNR’s responsibility until Governor Sam Bozian suddenly reassigned part of it to Ag, a move which had upset sportsmen and conservationists alike. Now it fell to conservation officers to inspect the state’s nearly eight hundred game farms and operations, and being so short of people, this was pulling officers away from other law enforcement duties. Time management issues aside, the governor’s decision had been the right one, and he was hearing from other officers that at least half of the game operations were out of compliance with the most essential regulations.
    Service knew a necropsy had to be done—and fast. The outbreak in Wisconsin was thought by some to have originated with animals, probably elk on a