The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel (16 page)

“And you think he’s gotten into something more serious?”

“That’s why we’re here,” says Haggerty.

I consider asking Mrs. Haggerty if any particular intimate apparel is missing from her notorious collection but think better of it. “And how long has this been going on?”

The headmaster looks at his wife. “Just over a week, wouldn’t you say?”

“Possibly,” says Crystal. “It could have been longer.”

“No,” says Haggerty, “it was definitely after I returned from that weekend conference in Atlanta. Before I went away he was absolutely fine.”

Haggerty comes back to me, ready for more pertinent questions. Crystal, on the other hand, appears distracted, wrestling with the recollection.

“Has Puck been drooling?” I ask.

“No,” says Haggerty.

There’s a long awkward pause as I try to dig up questions pertinent to Puck’s problem. I don’t know what to say next.
Why can’t they leave me alone, let me think without the scrutiny?
The silence between us becomes oppressive and embarrassing and eventually I blurt out, “How’s his stool?”

“Normal.”

Damn. “No blood, mucus, or excessive straining?”

Haggerty tries to consult with his wife, but she’s lost to some type of anxious reverie. He shakes his head.

“Eating and drinking fine?”

“Same as always.”

Another awkward pause, and then a classic question floats by and I grab it. “And when Puck throws up, what’s it look like?”

Haggerty brings a finger and thumb up to his chin, considering how to word his description.

“I would say yellow, no, buttery, viscous with more than a hint of froth.”

Crystal is back but agitated. “It’s puke, Ken, not a glass of wine.”

“I was merely trying to be helpful.”

I interject before this escalates. “And it was definitely an active vomiting process. I mean Puck had to work his abdominal muscles to get it out. He doesn’t just lower his head and it falls out.”

Finally, they are unified in headshakes. I’m pleased. No, I’m more than pleased. For the first time in my brief and real veterinary career I have
verbally
discarded a long list of red herrings and, in doing so, by default, I’m one step closer to a diagnosis. Though Ken and Crystal may not know it, I just ruled out the possibility of passive regurgitation.

“Good,” I say. “Then let’s take a look.”

At this point, I’m thinking I can probably handle a gregarious Lab, so I squat down, and Puck barrels in with his head, tongue flopping side to side, twisting his rump around to flagellate me with his tail.

“I want to know if there’s something obvious stuck in his intestines,” says Haggerty, as though nothing could be simpler.

Thankfully, Crystal steps forward to distract Puck by scratching his ears as I set about my palpation of the dog’s guts. I take my time, front to back, top to bottom, and Puck is wonderfully relaxed and amenable, his slack belly allowing me to appreciate everything. I’m not exactly sure what I’m feeling but he demonstrates no pain, no wince, no nothing.

“I don’t feel a thing out of place. No small children or license plates as far as I can tell.” My effort at levity receives dead-eyed stares. Best not try that again. I go with another Lewis tactic—stall. “But there are lots of other things that could be causing him to vomit. At the very least we should think about getting some blood work and some X-rays of his abdomen.”

“No, no, no,” says Haggerty, waving his hand at me. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

Did I have dollar signs in my eyes? I pick up the file, carefully open it up, and peek at Doris’s Post-it note:
$!
What on earth am I supposed to make of that?

“Puck always passes these things, don’t you boy? I just wanted to make sure he was all right.”

Puck barks once, as if to confirm that his master speaks the truth.

“Look, if things don’t sort themselves out over the next few days, I’ll bring him back for more tests, okay?”

“I’ll be the one bringing him back,” says Crystal, “because my husband is forgetting he’s going to be out of town this weekend.”

I’m not sure whether this information is intended for Dr. Haggerty’s benefit, or for mine. “Very good,” I say. “But if anything changes for the worse, be sure to contact either myself or Doc Lewis.”

Haggerty steps forward and picks up his dog’s leash. “It was nice to meet you. We must have you over for dinner one night, mustn’t we, Crystal.” But before his wife can reply, Haggerty is heading out the door. “I’ll go and warm up the car?”

Does he seriously think he can trade a home-cooked meal for services rendered?

“Doris will be happy to take the fee for today’s visit,” I shout after him. The effect on those in the waiting room is startling, like screaming “I’ve got a bomb” on a plane. In unison, they stare at me with alarm in their eyes.

“Oh,” says Mrs. Haggerty, unable or unwilling to hide her disappointment, “only Dr. Cobb used to let these ‘little visits’ slide.”

My smile must look like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

“Well, it was still a pleasure to meet you.” She stretches out her hand to shake mine. “If Puck doesn’t turn the corner soon I will definitely be in touch.”

Making to leave, she catches herself and says, “Tell me, Doctor, do you make house calls?”

“Yes, of course,” I reply, feeling the need to add, “though there’s an extra charge for the service.”

“Of course,” she says. “And if you’re ever in the area, drop by. The campus is fabulous, even in the winter. It would be my pleasure to show you what’s on offer.”

I notice a smudge of red lipstick bonded to one of her upper incisors. Is she flirting with me?

“And I’ll be sure to get back to my friend, Stephanie. See what she knows about our famous Dr. Mills from Charleston.”

“Thank you,” I mumble as Mrs. Crystal Haggerty disappears, wondering if I’m destined to become the love slave of this frustrated urban housewife in order to buy her silence.

I’m ready to pry another file from Doris’s boney claw. “Who’s next and what was with that note?”

“Sorry,” says Doris, under her breath. “I thought it was obvious, like a hotel rating system, you know, one star means a dump, five stars means a palace. So, one dollar means a tightwad who never pays on time, and five will mean loaded to the gills with money to blow. D’you want me to write this down for you?”

“No, I get it. I’ll just take the next file.”

She hands over a folder as thick as the yellow pages phone directory.

“Here, this belongs to Clint, Harry Carp’s dog. The fax with her blood results arrived this morning. I thought you might want to give him a call.”

Hum, that was a pretty fast turnaround, and Doris is right, I’d forgotten all about poor Clint.

I flick through the file and can’t find the new paperwork. “Where is it?”

“Where it always is, out back next to the microscope.”

And to think, I almost believed Doris was being helpful.

I discover the fax machine perched on a counter next to a microscope. There’s a note on the counter, carefully laminated and securely taped near the microscope:
USE OIL FOR HIGH POWER LENS ONLY
! Mom’s handiwork again, the absence of
please
duly noted. Hard to believe Cobb kept these reminders of my mother around, but I’m glad he did. They feel like an oasis in a desert of discord, a touchstone to order and discipline.

Lying in the fax machine’s tray I find a single sheet of paper, the blood results for an older model mixed-breed dog named Clint Carp. The data is divided into columns: a long list of everything that’s been tested, their absolute values, and the upper and lower limits of a normal range for each value. It’s a hieroglyphic mix of numbers and enzymes and ions and cell types but, with a vivid recollection of the dog’s owner, Harry, I feel compelled to take my time and work on the translation.

Neutrophilic leukocytosis

Hidden in the secret language on the page, all I can say for sure is that Clint has a mild increase in the number of some of her white blood cells. There are too many to blame it on the stress of having your blood drawn by a clumsy novice. There are too few to conclude that Clint is battling some sort of an infection. In short, Clint’s blood work results are totally nonspecific and inconclusive.

I find Harry’s number in the file and dial. He picks up after the tenth ring. I introduce myself, give him a chance to catch his breath, and tell him about the blood results.

“Could it be cancer?”

“Maybe, but not necessarily,” I say. “Neutrophils are a specific lineage of white blood cells, indicative of …” My words trail off as I catch myself. For me, there’s always been security, a comforting precision, to be found in medical jargon, but right now, for the first time in my career, I appreciate how it’s the last thing Harry needs to hear. Having met him, knowing exactly where he is standing in his home, pained expression on his face, odd little creature by his side, I’m struck by a sudden urge to give this dying old man something more meaningful than dumbing down the details. No hedging, no waffling, just a simple “yes” or “no” answer. Harry’s quavering voice makes something inside me loosen and break free, something totally irrational and, quite possibly, reckless.

“No,” I hear myself say, with absolutely no scientific justification whatsoever. “No, Harry, Clint does not have cancer.”

What’s come over me? Can this be a lie if there’s no malicious intent? But I’m giving him an answer where one does not exist.

A sigh of relief whistles down the phone line, and I have to say, it makes my distortion of the truth much more palatable. There’s no point in trying to sort out Clint’s illness with her owner dying of worry. If I’m wrong, and, to be honest, I still may be, I’ll have to face the music when the time comes.

“That’s good to know, but what else can it be?”

That wasn’t much of a reprieve.

“Sorry, Harry, I’m still not sure. How’s she doing today?”

Another sigh, and I pick up on the subtle distinction between relief and disappointment.

“Same as before. Nibbling at her food, but she’s drinking fine.”

Ah, the frustration of “ain’t doin’ right.”

“I’ll ask Doc Lewis if he can drop by and take a look at her,” I say. “Better still, you might want to bring her here to Bedside Manor.”

There’s a silence on the line. “I’ll see if I can get a ride. To be honest, I feel a whole lot better knowing she doesn’t have cancer. Thanks, Doc.”

Somehow I can’t bring myself to say,
me too
.

The waiting room is down to its last two cases: a guy in an army surplus camouflage jacket clutching his albino rabbit and a middle-aged woman sitting next to a younger man with a fancy cat carrier.

I approach Her Majesty and whisper, “Who’s next?”

Doris says nothing but slides the file (another monster) across the counter toward me, a yellow fingernail tapping a yellow Post-it note on the cover. I look to see what she’s pointing to:
$$$$$$
.

“Six,” I mouth, conscious of my own wide-eyed excitement.
Cha-ching!

Her nod is almost imperceptible as she peels off the note and scrunches it inside her palm.

“Chelsea,” I call, twirling around as the young man and the woman get to their feet. I doubt he’s made it into his thirties. I doubt she’s still in her fifties.
Has to be mother and son
. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am to keep you waiting Ms….”

“Weidmeyer, Virginia Weidmeyer, but please, call me Ginny.” She reaches forward to shake my hand. “And this is Steven.”

Steven gives me a snappy little chin jerk, which, to my way of thinking, only serves to exaggerate the age difference between them. Thank goodness he spared me the “wassup.” He wears a long, matte black leather coat over a denim shirt, blue jeans with creases, and shiny cowboy boots. Perhaps he thought the dead cow afforded his Canadian tuxedo a touch of class. I find the look a little contrived, as if he hopes people will ask whether he is on his way to or from a
Matrix
convention.

“Very nice to meet you both, I’m Doctor—”

“I know who you are, Cyrus,” says Ginny. “Your father was a dear friend. I’m so sorry.”

I’ve stopped breathing. There might be drool hanging from the corner of my mouth. This woman must know all about me and my estrangement from Cobb yet she’s not spitting in my face or lunging for my jugular.

“Thank you,” I manage to mumble, though it feels all wrong. I affect a tickle in my throat.
Get back on track
. “So, this must be Chelsea.”

Ginny gasps, lays a splayed palm across her chest, as if she’s committed a mortal sin. “Forgive me, yes, this is the love of my life, Chelsea.”

Steven raises the carrier in his hand in the manner of someone raising a toast with a glass full of beer. The feline must be in hiding at the back.

“Ginny, back so soon?”

Lewis is guiding his second-to-last clients in the direction of Doris—good man. He and Ginny exchange a peck as Steven looks on.

“Wanted Chelsea to meet her new vet.”

“Well then, you’d best take my exam room. I’m sure Malcolm and Mr. Snuffles will be more than happy to hop on back, right Malcolm?”

“Actually, Lewis, I was hoping we might have a quick word in—”

“No time, Dr. Mills. These patients have been patient for far too long. Please.” He holds the examination door open, gestures for us to enter, and it seems we have no choice.

Steven deposits the carrier on the floor, takes a seat, and starts messing with his watch. I’m not sure whether he wants me to get a move on or to notice it’s a TAG Heuer. Ginny stands by the exam table.

“I should explain the situation,” she says. “We’re longtime clients of your father.”

I try not to wince.

“He’s been treating her kidney disease forever. Isn’t that right, baby? Steven, be a love. Chelsea needs to say hello to the nice doctor.”

On a sigh Steven gets out of his chair, squats down, pops the latch on the little plastic gate, and reaches a hand inside. There’s an ungodly growl, an otherworldly hiss, and Steven quickly changes his mind, lifting up the back end of the carrier, angling it upward, attempting to “pour” the cat onto the floor. Chelsea may not have great kidneys, but with her crib tilted at ninety degrees, she clearly retains the power to defy gravity.