The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel (11 page)

My mouth hangs open.

“I mean, it’s bound to raise questions,” she says. “The name change, the no-show at your mother’s funeral, the no-show at your father’s funeral?”

She sounds as though she’s lamenting my shortcomings, like I forgot to turn up for a dental appointment. My tongue remains paralyzed as the waiting room door swings open and in walks a teenage girl carrying a cardboard cat carrier.

There’s an awkward silence, as if she may have interrupted a married couple engaged in a squabble.

I lean in to Doris and breathe in the nicotine-infused beehive. “There are two sides to every story.” I turn to face the newcomer. “I’m sorry but I don’t start seeing appointments again until one thirty.”

The girl looks surprised and makes a show of consulting her watch.

Doris inches a little closer to me. “Dr. Cobb always made a point of never turning away a sick animal.” And the fixed expression she leaves me with is totally,
but that’s up to you
.

Boy, I’m using up my quota of fake smiles for one day. “Won’t you join me in the examination room while Doris locates your file.”

The girl can’t be more than eighteen years old, if that, with the kind of piercings guaranteed to draw the eye—nasal, septum, and lip—and cause the un-pierced among us to think about what happens to the metal and mucus when you catch a cold. Her hair has to be dyed, it’s simply too black in contrast to skin so white she looks like she’s ready for a cameo in another vampire movie. Her unzipped and ratty coat falls open to reveal an enormous bulge under a T-shirt that reads Fat People are hard to kidnap!

“When’s your due date?” Though there’s a risk my question is politically incorrect, when something is so patently obvious my mouth usually betrays me.

“Last Tuesday.”

No rings on any fingers. Some might think it’s a precaution against perinatal swelling. I’m thinking she’s a single mom.

“They didn’t want to induce you?” I ask, placing the surprisingly heavy carrier on the examination table, closing the door behind us, and helping the girl take a seat.

“Next Monday, but I’m like, hoping to have him on Friday.”

“Why Friday?”

“Because it’s a full moon and it’s the thirteenth.”

She says this in all seriousness, with an innocence that is almost as refreshing as it is scary.

I nod, as though this makes perfect sense to me too.

“How far is it to the nearest delivery room?”

“Like fifteen miles, but this time of year with the snow and the ice it’s literally going to take me an hour.”

I nod. “Induction might be the best way to go.”

She studies me and says, “You talk a bit like Forrest Gump. You’re not from round here, are you?”

“No,” I say. “No, I’m not.”

“You work for the little old man?”

“Kind of. We’re working together. I’m Dr. Mills, from South Carolina.”

“I’m Denise,” she says, “and this is my little Tina.”

“And what’s going on with your … little … Tina?”

“You tell me, Doctor Gump,” she says, reaching a hand to her lips too late, as though she is not in the least bit sorry.

But you ain’t got no legs, Lieutenant Dan
.

I can’t help but laugh. I open the carrier, reach inside, and pull out a large black cat. Tina may be shy and a little frightened, but she is wonderfully compliant. She stays where I place her, pressing her many love handles flat to the metallic table. I’m guessing she weighs around twenty pounds but to be fair, there’s more to Tina than can be explained by an excess of canned tuna. I risk the same assumption twice in one day.

“Is she pregnant too?”

Denise nods. “I’m pretty sure she’s at, like, day sixty-six,” she says. “Doc Lewis told me to check back.”

Day sixty-six is the feline equivalent of nine months. I whip out my stethoscope, listen to Tina’s chest, take her temperature, gently palpate her Buddha belly. Everything seems to be in order.

Pedigree cats have a much higher risk of a difficult labor than cats of mixed breeding
.

“What was that?” asks Denise.

I chance a peek under her tail—prominent genitalia but no discharge.

“Oh, nothing. What makes Doc Lewis so concerned?”

“Her broken pelvis,” says Denise. She stands up, takes the cat’s pointy face in her hands, and plants a kiss on its black nose. “She’s, like, an indoor cat. Or supposed to be. She escaped, years ago, gone for, like, a week and when she came back she was all, like, skin and bones and dragging her legs. Doc Cobb, you know, the vet who died, he looked at Tina for me, even though I had no money and he was like, ‘ah, she’ll heal just fine.’ Guess he was right.

“Thing is, he said to get her
sprayed
.” Denise works a little attitude into her eyes.

Sprayed
. I’m pretty sure that’s not quite what he said, but I don’t interrupt.

“Yeah right, like, how was I supposed to do that? I was a kid and my old man wasn’t going to pay for it. So I’d lock her in my room when she got horny. Worked fine, ’til I got roommates. They’re all in and out all day, you know.”

“And Tina got out and got pregnant?”

“Right. Bit like me, I guess.”

This conversation is becoming increasingly disturbing. It ignites the familiar itch at the back of my head.

“Doc Lewis took an X-ray of Tina’s belly two weeks ago. There’s only one kitten. He says it’s like, really big, and Tina’s pelvis healed crooked. She might not pass it on her own and I can’t afford a C-section. I don’t have a job and”—she taps her belly, flashes a phony smile—“guess who ain’t gettin’ one any time soon. Don’t have the money for my own baby let alone my cat’s baby. But I’m here, seeing you, ready to pay, ’cause she’s like my little sister, and right now, she’s the only family I got.”

Denise stares up at me with big, green, wet eyes. What’s with this preemptive crying over pets? Chances are Tina will be fine. Last thing I need right now is a reputation for reducing an impoverished pregnant teenager to tears. I grab a wad of tissues from a box on the counter, just in case.

“My old man kicked me out when he found out I was pregnant. There’s no father for the baby. This little cat has listened to my crap for years. She never once tried to get one over on me, never burst my bubble, she don’t give me lip, and she lets me think I know best, even if we both know I don’t. I need Tina and Tina needs me. I won’t let her down.”

Somehow she keeps the tears in check. Denise notices the unemployed tissues in my hand and appears to be puzzled.

“You gonna cry on me?”

I drop the tissues in the trash.

“Of course not. Don’t you have anyone to help you out? What about your roommates?”

“They’re all in Cancún. Planned the trip before I got pregnant. Guess who lost her deposit?”

I look at Denise and then look at Tina. “You two make quite the pair,” I say, running my hand along the cat’s spine and getting a little “up periscope” action from Tina’s tail. “Best keep our fingers crossed that neither one of you has to worry about a C-section.”

If Tina the cat gets into distress as she goes into labor, Doc Lewis is going to have to be the one to cut her open and deliver her kitten. As a veterinary student I never performed even the most minor of feline surgeries, let alone something complex like a C-section.

“Don’t worry, I’ll check in with Doc Lewis and let him know we’ve met. You have our number, and remember you can call us anytime, day or night, if anything starts to be a problem.”

“What am I looking for, again?”

Okay, I think I can rattle off some of the general signs of pending labor but I promise to check in on the veterinary textbooks and call Denise if I discover something useful. “Vaginal discharge. Pushing and straining without success. You know, bearing down. Getting weak, trembling, or vomiting.”

“Pretty much like me?”

“Correct. But I’m sure you’ll both be fine.” I offer Tina one more gentle pat to the head, pick her up, grunt at her weight as I place her back in the carrier.

“Let me walk you out to your car,” I say, carrier in one hand, offering Denise my arm for support as we waddle out to the waiting room, straight past a scowling Doris.

Denise points toward a surprisingly new, if dirty, VW Beetle. “I’m borrowing it while my friend’s in Mexico. It’s crap in the snow but it beats walking.”

I smile. I like Denise’s no-nonsense, what-you-see-is-what-you-get attitude. Or maybe I relate to the pigheaded, stubborn spirit that has helped her to survive this much and get this far.

“Call me if I can help,” I say. And I actually mean it.

“Thanks,” says Denise. She looks up at me. “But what about paying for today’s appointment?”

After my encounter with Mr. Critchley, his grim fiscal forecasts and the clock ticking on my good faith payment, I can hardly believe that I’m standing here with this pregnant girl and her pregnant cat and the concept of money could not be further from my mind. I can almost hear Dr. Robert Cobb saying,
Not so easy now, is it?

“Let’s sort it out next time. Promise to visit with Tina’s kitten and your new baby.”

Denise beams at me with so much pleasure it hurts me to watch, and I can tell, for the first time since we’ve met, Denise is vulnerable. In seconds, though, she’s scrambling for the car keys, confirming that she will visit, and rushing, as best she can, for the sanctuary of the bug.

Back inside the empty waiting room, Doris is still glaring. “She coming back in to pay or what?”

“Uh, no … she’s … in a hurry to get to a doctor’s appointment herself. I said we’d bill her. I’ll make sure Lewis knows.”

Doris has her arms folded across her chest, and I follow her eyes to the far wall, where she posted my payment in full notice. If only Doris had had the same attitude with Dr. Cobb.

“You probably noticed that she’s very, very pregnant. In her state, if she’s in a hurry to see her doctor, I thought it best to let her go.”

Doris’s eyes bore into mine, and there’s an unsettling grumble emanating from her throat. It is not of this world and it scares me.

I beam, to no avail, and back away, back through the exam room to the main workspace and “the library,” check up on dystocia in cats, and discover that everything I told Denise is accurate.

Doris pops her head around the door. “I’ll be back at two.”

“Thanks, Doris.”

“And this came for you.”

She hands over a large sealed envelope bearing my name.
No stamps, no postmark. It’s been hand delivered
.

“Who dropped it off?”

“No idea. Found it on the doorstep when you were visiting Harry Carp.”

She doesn’t wait around for me to ask why she didn’t give it to me sooner.

I tear it open, reach inside, and it’s like a jolt of electricity sizzles through my chest. I pull out a single sheet of paper, a printed online article, familiar and damning, pulled from the pages of an old issue of the Charleston
Post and Courier
.

CHARLESTON, S.C. (AP) — A Charleston man was forcibly removed from his place of employment after a skirmish with security.

Forty-year-old Cyrus Mills was terminated late Friday afternoon from McCall and Rand Pharmaceuticals, where Dr. Mills, DVM, had been working as their chief pathologist for the past two years. Deputies were called when Mills refused to be escorted from the premises. Neither Mills nor McCall and Rand would comment on the reasons behind the dismissal, however the South Carolina State Veterinary Board has suspended Mills’s license to practice pending further inquiries. No charges are expected.

I feel the boom of blood pulsing in my ears.

That’s it. No accompanying note, just a single sheet of paper. Five humiliating sentences marking the darkest moment of my professional career and a death sentence for Bedside Manor.

Eating lunch is out of the question, and why won’t Lewis pick up his phone? I’m pacing outside among the confetti of scorched dead butts, and it’s five after two before Doris strolls up the driveway. As soon as she’s in range she shouts, “Can’t find a file? Someone waiting to see you?”

There’s that wicked smile again.

“I need to reach Lewis. It’s urgent. You know where he went?”

Doris takes one last slow drag and holds it in deep. The crinkles around her eyes begin to spasm. “The private lives of the doctors of Bedside Manor are none of my business.”

Then she wipes the snow off her shoes and opens the front door. I join her in the empty waiting room.

“The word must be out,” she says, removing scarf and mittens. “Tell you what, if anyone does show up, I’ll come and find you. Fair enough?”

I’m speechless. Not only does everybody know everybody in this town, they know everything that’s going on, and that includes me covering afternoon appointments for Lewis. For a second I wonder if Doris is behind the anonymous newspaper article. No, doesn’t make sense. If Bedside Manor fails she’d be out of a job, and from what I’ve seen so far she might have a hard time getting another one.

“I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

Even though I’ve acquired a golden shadow (Frieda insists we maintain some form of physical contact at all times), I pace the dining room, head swimming with candidates and motivation for bribery or revenge. I’ve got to keep it together, think rationally, and consider the evidence. The newspaper article was obviously downloaded from the
Post and Courier
’s Web site. Anyone with access to the Internet could have found it. No note. Maybe someone’s playing games, being vindictive, or wants to send a warning? Why not go straight to the State Veterinary Board? Two possibilities. First, the sender has no interest in the specifics of my license because he or she is simply after any dirt that will emasculate me and any prospect I have of selling Bedside Manor. Second, most blackmailers don’t go through the appropriate channels.

The package was hand delivered, so it is probably from someone local, and given the fact that this is only my second day on the job, it’s someone who’s been expecting me to turn up. Mr. Critchley from Green State Bank knew where to find me and he seemed disappointed not to be getting his claws into the property, but he never struck me as the extortion type. That leaves just about every pet owner in Eden Falls to whom Cobb bad-mouthed his only son. There must be plenty of his loyal clients out there—smarting from the way I abandoned him during his decline, convinced I boycotted his funeral, only turning up with an eye to making money—who would love to make me squirm before running me out of town.