When a nervous, self-focused singleton German shepherd puppy enters journalist Cat Warren’s life, the usual doggy activities are not enough to challenge or focus her new dog’s prodigious energy. That’s when Warren discovers that nosing out the missing dead is a perfect match for her dog’s talents and temperament—and also congenial to her sharp eye and lively intelligence.
Dogs. Death. Murder. Mystery. Decomposition. Trust. Error. Life. Loss. Love. Discovery.
They’re all here––which is why WTDK can be read, among other things, as an extended meditation on human mortality and self-consciousness—two topics I’m personally drawn to. Warren has enlarged my sense of the possible ways to die: There are so so many ways to go (Get murdered and left to rot along a highway; get knocked off and thenburied under a dead animal to throw off searchers, or simply to succumb to being alone, confused and lost.) And once one has departed, there are many ways, some slow, some fast, to fade from the earth––beer-bloated and submerged, or reduced to a years’ old oily smudge broadcasting a sweet, acidic scent through the godforsaken woods. As Warren explains, “we cease to exist,” but we also “stubbornly stick around.”
But cadaver dogs like Solo and handlers like Warren are important and incredibly interesting just because of who they are––solvers of mysteries, assuagers of grief, providers of endings to tragic stories of accidents or murder, and bringers of justice.
Of course, Solo, Warren’s canine partner, isn’t thinking about any of the above. He’s fully engaged in the here and now, focused finding and following death’s sweet scent––not its implications. He’s an expert in what Wallace Stevens called the “the.” Stuff. Running through it, around it, sensing it, sniffing it out, muscling through it. And as Solo’s partner, Warren must tune into this powerful canine mindfulness, too—or as she puts it––she must trust her dog:
“If the drugs or the gunpowder or the bone is actually there and a handler tries to move on? The dogs learns how to “commit,’ to plant himself stubbornly and ignore the handler’s prevarications or even a slight jerk on the lead to come off the scent, a pull that a less-evolved working dog might respond to.
It’s not mystifying. It’s not eerie. It is a beautiful sight, a dog trusting his nose, ignoring his handler’s efforts to get him to unstuck himself from the flypaper scent that he’s stuck to. The dog who ignores the handler’s gaze, which is irrelevant to the task at hand. This is what real faith should look like---hard and unwavering. This is what the co-evolution of a working dog and handler should look like. The dog’s commitment to the truth in the face of your moving away. That’s real teamwork—the dog pointing his nose or paw or entire body at the scent, telling his handler. You bloody idiot! It’s here!”
Do you think you see where this is going? Well you can’t. Cat Warren is much too smart, has too much heart, and is too fine a writer to include any of the “My Dog Saved Me” or “My Dog Taught Me To Really Embrace Life” saccharine bullshit.Instead we see the hard work, the misunderstandings, the errors in attention or translation that inform the dog-human partnership—or as Cat Warren would call it, the work. She even includes stories of notoriously fraudulent handlers just to remind us of the human predilection for lying—to ourselves and others.
Warren demonstrates that training a dog and one’s own head to find the occult dead is hard. That dogs work to the point of exhaustion and beyond to find the missing. The "work" for both handler and dog is difficult and slippery. Important. Scary. Dangerous work. And I’m so grateful that Cat Warren and Solo (and Coda)–– and people and dogs like her and them have taken on the job. It’s an honor to get to know them and to read Warren’s very fine and brilliant book.