movement’ sounded suspiciously like what was happening with the kids. Could be coincidence — and the stroke diagnoses may all be completely accurate — but I’d rather present that 4.2 percent increase to you as a possible puzzle piece now rather than later.”
Rolando drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Most of our field reps are at a training conference in San Diego through the end of this week. Does this really warrant me pulling them away prematurely? Susan, how are you staffed?”
“For three states looking at pigs, chickens and cows? I can send a few lab specialists out, but after the last round of cut-backs, I don’t have the resources needed for that kind of task force. If you can narrow the area and the number of farms and animals — even animal types — and maybe enlist some of the vets out there to help, then I could justify ponying up more people. Get me something more concrete and I’ll see what I can do.”
Mike looked to his boss, Kevin. “I can parse data in the field as well as I can here at the office. I can’t tell a bull from a heifer, but maybe I can run down leads, conduct some face-to-faces or at least recruit some help.”
“It’s three states,” Kevin reminded him. “Where would you even start?”
“The school party was in Williston, North Dakota. That’s just over the county line from where the hamburger came from. Could be some dairy farms around there, too.” He grinned. “No wife, no kids, no dog to board — assuming there’s an airport nearby, I could fly out today.”
CHAPTER 12
IT WAS DONNA BAILEY’S THIRD trip to the Spalding Ranch is as many days. Three weeks after his herd had first started showing signs of neurologic disorder, Mr. Spalding had lost seven cows. Nine more seemed to be in the beginning stages of whatever was making its way through his dairy herd.
Standard tests for practically everything in the book had consistently yielded negative results, not just for the Spalding animals but for the surrounding farms and ranches as well. Necropsies validated the symptoms, showing pockets of degeneration, as well as plaque, in the brain tissue and spinal cord. It was clear why the animals were dying, but what pathogen was responsible still eluded Donna and her colleagues as animals in a wider and wider area became afflicted.
The return trips were the ones Donna hated the most. Each call to the Spalding Ranch this week had meant another failure, another cow she was being asked to put down. Even Chad and Alfie seemed subdued by the increasingly depressive situation. The lanky vet tech had been even quieter than normal on rounds today, and the hyper border collie lay curled on the seat with her muzzle resting heavy on Donna’s thigh. The dog’s eyes were shut, an occasional shudder rippling through her body as she presumably chased after dream-squirrels.
Even after they pulled up to the barn, Alfie couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to get out of the truck.
Dan met them at the barn door. By the absence of Mr. Spalding, Donna pretty much knew what was coming. “Another one?”
“’Fraid so. Thought you’d want to know, otherwise we’d have handled it ourselves.” Dan pointed her inside.
Chad’s phone chimed. “It’s Mrs. Rourke,” he said, excusing himself to take the call.
The cow they’d come to see was down. Not just too weak to stand on her own but laid out flat, her legs stiff and bouncing against the hay-strewn floor.
“Are you going to want to open her up?” Dan asked.
Donna had necropsied the first cow and calf, then another last week. None of them had told her anything she didn’t already know from dozens of necropsies across the county. “No need.”
“I’ll be getting the truck then.”
The truck with the winch, he meant. Donna nodded. He’d drag the carcass out to where he’d disposed of the others, away from live
Rolando drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Most of our field reps are at a training conference in San Diego through the end of this week. Does this really warrant me pulling them away prematurely? Susan, how are you staffed?”
“For three states looking at pigs, chickens and cows? I can send a few lab specialists out, but after the last round of cut-backs, I don’t have the resources needed for that kind of task force. If you can narrow the area and the number of farms and animals — even animal types — and maybe enlist some of the vets out there to help, then I could justify ponying up more people. Get me something more concrete and I’ll see what I can do.”
Mike looked to his boss, Kevin. “I can parse data in the field as well as I can here at the office. I can’t tell a bull from a heifer, but maybe I can run down leads, conduct some face-to-faces or at least recruit some help.”
“It’s three states,” Kevin reminded him. “Where would you even start?”
“The school party was in Williston, North Dakota. That’s just over the county line from where the hamburger came from. Could be some dairy farms around there, too.” He grinned. “No wife, no kids, no dog to board — assuming there’s an airport nearby, I could fly out today.”
CHAPTER 12
IT WAS DONNA BAILEY’S THIRD trip to the Spalding Ranch is as many days. Three weeks after his herd had first started showing signs of neurologic disorder, Mr. Spalding had lost seven cows. Nine more seemed to be in the beginning stages of whatever was making its way through his dairy herd.
Standard tests for practically everything in the book had consistently yielded negative results, not just for the Spalding animals but for the surrounding farms and ranches as well. Necropsies validated the symptoms, showing pockets of degeneration, as well as plaque, in the brain tissue and spinal cord. It was clear why the animals were dying, but what pathogen was responsible still eluded Donna and her colleagues as animals in a wider and wider area became afflicted.
The return trips were the ones Donna hated the most. Each call to the Spalding Ranch this week had meant another failure, another cow she was being asked to put down. Even Chad and Alfie seemed subdued by the increasingly depressive situation. The lanky vet tech had been even quieter than normal on rounds today, and the hyper border collie lay curled on the seat with her muzzle resting heavy on Donna’s thigh. The dog’s eyes were shut, an occasional shudder rippling through her body as she presumably chased after dream-squirrels.
Even after they pulled up to the barn, Alfie couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to get out of the truck.
Dan met them at the barn door. By the absence of Mr. Spalding, Donna pretty much knew what was coming. “Another one?”
“’Fraid so. Thought you’d want to know, otherwise we’d have handled it ourselves.” Dan pointed her inside.
Chad’s phone chimed. “It’s Mrs. Rourke,” he said, excusing himself to take the call.
The cow they’d come to see was down. Not just too weak to stand on her own but laid out flat, her legs stiff and bouncing against the hay-strewn floor.
“Are you going to want to open her up?” Dan asked.
Donna had necropsied the first cow and calf, then another last week. None of them had told her anything she didn’t already know from dozens of necropsies across the county. “No need.”
“I’ll be getting the truck then.”
The truck with the winch, he meant. Donna nodded. He’d drag the carcass out to where he’d disposed of the others, away from live
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