Canine Christmas (24 page)

Marie was hard to explain. She had brought her ancient cat, Callie, in for its final visit about a month earlier. We knew her husband had died a year or so before that, and she had no children. Still, even while in mourning her basic cheerfulness showed through. Now, with her only pet gone, I fully expected her to show up with a new cat. She had showed up, all right—but as a kind of hospital volunteer, visiting the boarded animals with treats and pats, pitching in to clean a cage or answer a phone as needed. She said it was out of gratitude for our good care of Callie, but we had done nothing special for the cat and had charged her our usual fees. I suspected she simply needed someone to take care of.

I was reaching for my second cookie, tree-shaped with green sugar and tiny gumdrop ornaments, when Sheila buzzed us on the intercom. “Doctor?” she said, not specifying which of us. “Could you guys, like, come up here? I think you might have a patient.”

Trinka and I exchanged glances. We both went.

The “patient” was a medium-sized terrier. A gray-and-brown mutt with long wiry hair that would have looked unkempt even when clean and brushed. He was neither at the moment, just shaggy and tangled, with foxtails and bits of grass and sand and even gravel mixed into his coat. To describe him as forlorn would have been an understatement—his tail hung limply, his body sagged, his head lowered dejectedly.

Despite all this, his anxious eyes regarded us with something akin to hope. At least until recently, he had had reason to expect kindness from these godlike beings who walked upright.

Trinka and I moved to where he stood in the middle of the floor, instinctively going over him.

“He's so thin!” Trinka said. (Trinka should know— she errs on the scrawny side herself.)

“Where's his owner?” I asked, for the little dog was unaccompanied.

Sheila shrugged. “He just showed up. I heard a scratching, looked up, and there he was, outside the door.”

“No collar,” I pointed out. But there was an indentation where the hair was worn short around his neck.

“Dumped,” Trinka decided. Every so often someone would leave a dog or a box of kittens in the parking lot and drive away. Once, Sheila had gotten a license plate number and the creep was arrested and fined, but that was small comfort.

“Maybe so, but not today. He's been on his own for a while,” I said. “His toenails are worn to the quick.”

Sheila said, “Maybe he used to be a patient and recognized the building.”

“Poor little guy,” Trinka said, scratching him behind the ears. “Most of our patients don't think of us as their saviors, you know.”

She was right about that; a lot of animals associated us with shots and thermometers. But they might also think of it as a place their owner might turn up.

“Well, let's get him some food and water and see what we can do for him.”

Marie was already seeing to it.

He drank a whole bowl of water, wolfed down a can of food, then drank some more water. We offered him a blanket in a cage, and he settled down with an audible sigh. He looked up at us once, wagged his tail twice, then rolled onto his side and was instantly asleep.

Trinka and I exchanged apprehensive glances. “What do you think?” I asked, recalling past strays abandoned on our doorstep. Kittens and puppies we could usually find homes for—which, of course, was why people dumped them here. A young, healthy dog was more challenging but could often be adopted. But the older animals …

“Got room for another one?” she said.

“I've got the legal limit.” Four dogs. Plus six cats I figure no one had to know about. “It's your turn.”

She shook her head. “Ajax would eat him for lunch.” Her old white shepherd didn't tolerate interlopers.

We sighed in unison. I noticed Trinka was gazing speculatively at Marie, as I was. But Marie just said, “The poor little darling. I wonder how he knew to come here?”

“I'll at least scan him, what the heck.”

“Oh, right … he looks like someone would spend the money for a chip,” Trinka said cynically. For several years the clinic had offered permanent microchip implantation, a device the size of a grain of rice, injected under the skin. It could be detected at any shelter should the pet turn up lost. But those who sprang for the cost took better care of their pets than this.

However, when I ran the scanner over his back, it beeped and a number came up.

“Hey! Look at this!” I copied the number onto a sticky-note and took it up front. Before calling the registry, I decided to check our computer's database to see if it was one of ours. It was.

“I don't remember this dog,” I said.

Trinka just shrugged. Trinka had been with the practice a little under two years. The implantation date was nearly three years earlier, and we hadn't seen the dog since. Probably the owner had absentmindedly checked the “yes” box on an anesthesia release and forgotten about it. That didn't mean he would want the dog back now, but at least we could let someone know we had the dog—in case his stray status was in fact accidental.

I picked up the phone and dialed. As it rang I became conscious of the hopeful expressions of the people in the small crowd gathered around me. Didi, our technician, had returned from lunch and been apprised of the situation, so there were five of us waiting to see who would answer.

After six rings, no answering machine or voice mail or anything, I was ready to give up when a tremulous voice said, “Hello?”

“Mr. Thomas Atkins?”

“This is Tom Atkins. Who's that?” The voice was that of an old man. Very old, beaten down, sick maybe.

“Mr. Atkins, this is Dr. Andi Pauling at Dr. Doolittle's Pet Care Center. We have Willie-Boy.”

I heard a sharp gasp. “Willie-Boy? You have my Willie-Boy? But Branson said—”

Suddenly a new voice spoke—younger, sharp, a little mean. “Who is this?”

I repeated my name and my errand.

“I don't know why you're bothering us, but you have no right to do this!”

“What do you mean? The dog is right here!” I shot Trinka a puzzled glance, and she rechecked the microchip number again. There was no mistake.

“Sir, this dog showed up in my clinic this morning, bedraggled and exhausted and with no collar. He has a microchip that identifies him as Willie-Boy belonging to Tom Atkins. Now, if you don't want the dog—”

“Yes, yes, of course that's all right,” the voice said, its earlier sharp anger now replaced by mild irritation. “Everyone makes mistakes. But please don't call here again.” And the line went dead.

“That was weird,” I said, putting the phone down. “It's like we were having two different conversations.” I got a new dial tone and hit Redial. Got a busy signal. Tried again with the same results.

Trinka said, “If the phone number's right, the address might still be valid.”

All five of us exchanged glances. Should we try?

“The man who answered the phone said he was Tom Atkins, the dog's owner. He sounded a little shocked that we had his dog. The other guy, the one who grabbed the phone away—he wasn't someone I want to deal with.”

“I'll go!” It was Marie, our perpetual volunteer.

Trinka grinned. “We'll all go. After work.”

Though we could probably have closed early without anyone noticing, we waited until five. That gave us a chance to bathe and brush the little mutt. Didi presented him with a new collar from the rack out front. Trinka started to protest the donation, but I glared at her and said, “Throw in a leash, too.”

“You gonna clean his teeth for free, too?”

I pretended to consider it. “Well … they sure could use it. Too bad we don't have a signed consent form.”

Still, a shaggy wirehaired mongrel cleans up just so well, and the Willie-Boy we led out to my car that afternoon didn't exactly have a bounce in his step. He followed the leash willingly enough, lifted his leg on the bush outside as if from long habit, and after a moment's hesitation climbed agreeably into the passenger side of the Miata. But even after a nap and a bowl of food, he looked worn-out and dejected. I hoped we weren't letting him in for even greater disappointment.

Since it was the end of the day we took four cars, Trinka leaving her Harley to ride with Marie. We made quite a caravan.

Didi's Thomas Guide got us to a side street near the foot of the mountain. It was only a few miles from the clinic, but far enough for a directionally challenged mutt to get himself lost if he wandered off on his own. Despite the evidence, I allowed myself to hope this was what had happened.

It was a nice house but needed paint and gutter work. The landscaping was uninspired—grass, oleander, and one palm tree overdue for trimming—and weeds protruded through cracks in the concrete driveway. Either the inhabitants hired a cut-rate gardener like I did, or did just enough themselves to keep the neighbors from complaining.

I climbed two steps to a wide concrete stoop and knocked on the door. Nothing happened. I knocked again, then a small sound told me there was someone on the other side. I gazed at the peephole, waiting.

Behind me, Willie-Boy whined. It was the low, eager sound of a dog trying unsuccessfully to restrain himself. I looked back to see him pulling at the leash. He was a dog transformed. His tail was curled over his back, his head was up, his mouth open in a panting grin. He glanced at me, as if wondering what was taking so long, then returned his gaze to the door.

I knocked once more.

Finally, it opened.

I found myself facing a man who did not match the voice that had first answered the phone. That had been a creaky voice—old or sick or both. This man was maybe mid-forties, overweight in a lazy, self-indulgent way. He had a pinched face with small, mean eyes.

For a moment I stood mutely, certain that we had the wrong house, that Thomas Atkins had moved, perhaps given his dog away to someone who had failed to notify the microchip registry of the change of ownership. But then Willie-Boy growled.

Turning, surprised, I saw the formerly sweet-tempered, patient little terrier bristling. Hair up, back in a straight line, he bared his teeth and produced an admittedly unconvincing rumble. I followed his gaze back to the man standing before me.

“Mr. Atkins?” I said, knowing this was not he. This must be the man who had hung up on me. Branson? Something was definitely wrong here.

“You have the wrong house.” He started to shut the door.

I surprised myself by jamming my foot against it. “I don't think so,” I said. “I want to see Mr. Atkins.”

Instead of becoming indignant, or shoving harder at the door, or threatening to call the police—all things I myself might have done in the same circumstances—he seemed to have no idea what to do. He stomped one foot, placed his fist on his hip, and sighed in exasperation. “My uncle doesn't want the mutt!” he said, casting an uneasy glance at Willie-Boy.

Behind me, the dog barked once and strained against his new leash.

“Then let him tell me so himself.” I felt vaguely shocked at my own persistence, but the prickling on the back of my neck told me something was very wrong here. And I was outraged on behalf of the dog. There are times when a beloved pet can no longer be kept, but there are humane ways of addressing that situation. Dumping the dog on the street is not one of them. Mr. Atkins had been a client at one time, and if he had orchestrated such abandonment, it wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing to make him own up to it.

“He's napping! I'll tell him you were here. Now go away!”

I hesitated, not adept at barging past people and really not sure what to do next. The door began to close, and I knew that if it did so I would not be able to get it to open again.

Maybe the dog sensed that his chance was slipping away and broke free, or maybe Marie let him go. At any rate Willie-Boy came flying past me, leash trailing. He snarled viciously, startling the man in the doorway enough that instead of slamming it, he stepped back. The dog did not attack him, as I half expected. Rather, without a backward glance, he dashed past him into the house.

Forgetting us, the man shouted in outrage and dashed after Willie-Boy.

The five of us exchanged glances. “Is that it?” Didi asked. After all, we had set out to take Willie-Boy home, and home he clearly was.

“I don't know,” I said. “Whoever that was, doesn't seem too glad to have him back. I'm afraid he'll just dump him again. Or worse.”

Trinka said, with a completely straight face, “We've come this far. There could be a medical emergency involving that dog. We have an ethical duty to go in there and make sure he's all right.”

Suppressing a smile, I took a quick visual poll. Everyone seemed inclined to follow the dog inside the house. “He left the door open,” Sheila said. “That's, like, such an obvious invitation.”

We went in.

The house felt smaller than it probably was, darkened by drab carpet and wallpaper. The tightly drawn drapes that blocked out the sun felt severely out of place in southern California, land of vertical blinds and creative use of light. The air was stale and a little rank.

We hadn't seen where Willie-Boy went, but there weren't many places to choose from. We passed through the dingy living room, noting a small cramped kitchen to our left. Beyond was a short hallway, with a couple of closed doors—closets and a bathroom, I surmised— then two small bedrooms on the left and a larger one at the end on the right.

Voices led us to one of the smaller bedrooms. Our group crowded into the cramped space. It was dingy from lack of light, and the stale odor intensified here. The querulous voice from the telephone was saying, “… told me he was dead!”

It was a heart-wrenching reunion. Willie-Boy romped on the bed, tail waving, legs practically dancing, as he licked his master's face. The old man, who did look vaguely familiar now that I saw him, alternately held the dog at arms' length and clutched him in a feeble embrace. The shine on his cheeks might have been dog kisses … but was probably tears. I noticed a dark bruise on his right bicep, another one in the yellow stages of healing on the left. Illness? Abuse? My stomach knotted with unease.

The man who had answered the door—Branson, I guessed—literally stomped in frustration. “That mutt isn't welcome here! I'm warning you, Uncle Tom! Either that dog goes or I go!”