The Veterinarian Opened A Freezer Before I Signed Anything

"Do not reply while you're shaking," Saskia said.

"I'm not shaking."

She looked at the coffee rippling in my cup.

"Fine. The table is shaking."

We sat in her clinic outside Sheridan, with the green book between us. I had put my yellow, pink, and blue knitting under the cup so it would not stain her desk.

"That signature isn't mine," I said.

"We will say that clearly. First, copies."

She fed the impound form through her scanner. Then she opened a locked freezer in the back room. Frost crusted the handle. Inside were racks of small tubes and a log kept in a plastic sleeve.

She did not hand me anything.

"You can see," she said. "You don't touch. If this goes to court, I need to say who handled each sample."

The rack marked LANGLEY had twenty-four slots filled. The collection date was February tenth, sixteen days before my flock had left Ellis's place and three weeks before Dace's inspection.

"These prove which sheep they are?" I asked.

"With fresh samples and a proper comparison, yes. They don't prove who owns them. Your receipts and breeding records help with that. We need both."

She closed the freezer and called a lawyer named Ruth Beller.

Ruth asked for the report number, the signed consent, and the next sale date.

"I don't know about a sale," I said.

"Then that's our first problem."

By two, I had paid Ruth a $1,500 deposit from the money I kept for lambing emergencies. By three, she had sent written demands to preserve the sheep, trailer, records, and messages tied to the hold.

She copied the sheriff's office and Dace's state supervisor.

"We ask a judge to stop any transfer while ownership is checked," she told me. "No promises about the timing."

"What do I do?"

"Write down what happened. Times. Exact words when you remember them. Leave out what you think he meant."

That was work I understood. In a lambing shed, guesses did not belong in the treatment book.

At four, Dace called.

"You got yourself counsel over a clerical matter?"

"Your form says I sold my sheep."

"Nobody said sold. Recovery transfer. It stops your fees."

"I didn't consent."

"You can drag this out. Those animals will still eat."

I wrote his words beneath the time.

"Please send further instructions to Ruth Beller," I said.

"Merritt. Be sensible."

He said my name like a gate latch that should have lifted when he pulled it.

I thanked him for calling and hung up.

Saskia watched me add the call to my notes.

"You didn't yell."

"Thimble hates yelling."

For the first time all day, Saskia smiled.

An hour later, we got permission for a welfare visit. A deputy met us at a private holding yard west of town. Vale's truck stood outside the barn. Dace was gone.

The ewes crowded the back fence. Juniper held her sore foot up. Saskia walked in sideways, eyes low, and let them smell her sleeve.

"There now," she whispered. "No one needs to be brave."

She checked water, hay, and space. I read tag numbers aloud while the deputy watched us photograph each animal. Four wore fresh white tags beside my orange ones.

"What are those?" I asked.

Vale leaned against the door.

"Yard numbers."

Saskia recorded both numbers. She asked to draw blood. The deputy called his supervisor, then said we needed written authority for evidence collection.

She put her kit away without a fight.

"We have established they are here," she told me outside. "That matters."

"Four have new tags."

"And we recorded that too."

I drove back to my rented room with the heater high. I had lost a $720 overnight job because I could not leave town. My customer had been kind, which made it harder.

I laid the green book on the bed. There were grease marks on its cover and one small tooth dent from a bottle lamb. I used to feel foolish carrying such a plain thing into an office.

Now I copied every page.

At nine, Ruth called. A judge had set a morning hearing on our request to stop a transfer. She had also reached Ellis, who was driving back from a bull sale.

"He says he reported eighteen missing cull wethers," she said.

I sat down.

"Wethers?"

"Castrated males. Not twenty-four breeding ewes. He says his transfer copy supports that."

"Then why did Dace say otherwise?"

"Bring your original certificate tomorrow."

Before I could answer, another email landed. Attached was a transfer certificate bearing the same serial number as mine.

Its owner and destination fields were different.