The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel (2 page)

“Just so as we’re clear,” I say. “You have absolutely no interest in trying to resolve your dog’s problem?”

The man gives me a withering look and works his fingertips into his forehead, as if he might manually iron out some of the creases.

“Look, I feel bad about this.”

I pause and will myself to lock eyes before I say, “Only not bad enough.”

He stiffens. “You vets are all the same. Always trying to test for this. Medicate for that. Never know when to quit.”

“I thought you said your dog had never been to see a vet?”

He inhales, air whistling through clenched teeth. “It’s simple math. I can’t afford to find out what’s wrong with her. I can’t afford to fix her. And right now I can’t afford to live with her. Just the way it is.”

I look down at Frieda. She’s unnaturally clingy, obviously promiscuous with her affection, and thanks to her my sweaty palms look like I’m wearing golden mittens. Fabulous. Even so, as far as I can tell she seems to be happy. I look up at the man, hoping to see nothing but evil in his eyes, and yet, for all his remote, hard-nosed logic, something tells me he’s having a tougher time with this decision than he’s letting on. I don’t want to do this, but if I refuse I’m sure he’ll go somewhere else. It feels like Hobson’s choice, in other words, no choice at all.

“Very well,” I say, after a significant pause. “It’s your call, but I am going to need you to sign a consent form.” Assuming I can find a consent form.

“Is that really necessary?” he asks.

I pull on a drawer—boxes of needles of different gauges and lengths. The one below contains syringes. The third is home to all manner of paperwork—consent forms for surgery, pharmacy scrips for medication, rabies vaccine certificates—but no euthanasia consent forms.

“You know I’d rather not stay for the … for the, uh … injection,” he says, suddenly contrite and backing toward the door. “Okay to leave her with you?”

“Sir, I need you to sign a consent form.”

I continue to rifle papers and feel beads of sweat forming on my upper lip.

“Why don’t I just swing by tomorrow morning, I’ll sign it then.”

“First thing?” I ask. He nods and is almost out the door before I remember the reason I’m in this mess, why I find myself in an ill-fitting white jacket, a thousand miles away from home. “Hey, before you go, there is the matter of the bill.”

He stops in his tracks.

“Of course,” he says, reaching inside his breast pocket, fumbling with a wallet.

I know what you’re thinking—how can you be so cold as to discuss money at a time like this? Well, two things—Mr. Charcoal Suit clearly isn’t feeling sentimental. And given my current circumstance, it’s imperative.

“How much?”

I have no idea how much to charge. I pick a number.

“Forty.”

“I’ve only got a twenty.”

“You want me to give her half the dose?”

That one got away from me, and the man looks like I might be serious.

“Can I settle up tomorrow, when I come back to sign the form?”

My shoulders slump forward in surrender. “I suppose so,” I say, and he presses the bill into my hand, like he’s tipping the executioner, before backing away. No good-bye to me, but more importantly, no good-bye to Frieda.

I wait for the jingle of the shopkeeper’s brass bell as he leaves through the front door and allow myself a deep exhalation. Combine what I am about to do with my disturbing lack of experience, and it might be best if Frieda and I are left alone.

Despite the neediness of my feathery sidekick, I manage to locate a 12 cc syringe, a 20-gauge needle, a tourniquet to raise a vein, and a transparent plastic bottle containing a cobalt blue liquid bearing the disturbing label BEAUTHANASIA. Stupid name. Where’s the beauty in an overdose of barbiturates?

I look down at my patient. Or perhaps victim would be a better word. Her age has to be around twelve, maybe thirteen years. I base this estimate on several observations. Beyond the obvious gray muzzle, her elbows are thick and calloused, like leather patches on a threadbare jacket, worn thin from lying down too much. Her breath has a distinctive and frankly disagreeable bouquet—thanks to extensive dental disease—and, from what little I’ve seen, she has a proclivity for shaking her ears, probably the result of a chronic affinity to swimming in ponds and lakes. Right now she’s panting. Not surprising, given this strange environment. I guess we’re both riding a wave of adrenaline—only hers looks like excitement and mine looks like nervous anticipation.

Snap out of it. You’ve got a job to do. Time to balance compassion with bone-chilling coldness.

The thing is, to deliver my poison I must access a vein, and that means getting up close and personal, which means getting Frieda on the exam table. I begin patting the metal surface of the exam table. What am I thinking? Even polite society might label her proportions as, well, plus sized—maybe not quite muumuu material, but one would definitely advise against a bikini. She’s not going to hop up there. How best to do this?

I have my hand on top of her head. Slowly I reduce this contact to a single finger, like she’s a chess piece and I’m still debating my move. She remains calm, so I take a careful step backward. I consider my options. Do I use the element of surprise: rush at her, arms open wide? Or do I try to win her over, lull her into a false sense of security, and then pounce: pin her limbs, secure her head, and guard against snapping enamel? Curious chocolate eyes look up.

I make my move—one arm in front of her shoulders, one arm around her butt, and, despite an unsanitary mouthful of golden hair, with a scoop, a shove, and a scramble, somehow I get her up and onto the table.

While I’m cursing the shooting pain in my lower back, I reel at my reflection in the metallic surface. It’s the glare from ghostly white cheeks and chin, my having shaved off my beard yesterday for the first time in ages. It looks as weird as it feels. I’d be looking at a stranger were it not for the recognition of my hair and nose. Forget dirty blond, the unruly mop is boring brown; however, I do try to think of my nose as more Romanesque than prominent. Meanwhile Frieda, wholly disinterested in my new look, lies on the table like a canine version of Superman in flight, front legs outstretched, back legs outstretched, and that feathery tail won’t stop swishing.

“I’m going to need you to stay as calm and still as possible.” The warble in my voice is amplified in the small room and my pitch is wrong—too formal—as though I’m talking to another person and not a dog. Maybe it’s better if I keep quiet. I already know it’s better not to look into her eyes.

Be detached, regimented, and mechanical. Sadly, I’m guessing not that different from how some people might already describe me.

I take a minute to walk through the entire process in my mind, step by step. Everything is ready. I am prepared, but there’s still a nervous judder in my every breath.

I plug in an electric clipper, turn it on, and startle at the harsh chatter of the blade.

“It’s okay,” I say, more to myself than to Frieda. I reach out for a front leg and, without hesitation, Frieda does something so natural it stops me in my tracks—she offers up her paw. Believe me, anthropomorphic mumbo jumbo has no place in my vocabulary, but I’m at a loss for another way to describe a simple gesture that screams “I trust you.”

And what an interesting oversize paw it is, great tufts of fur crammed between the webs like she’s wearing fuzzy golden slippers. Against my better judgment, and only because we are alone, I take it and tentatively shake it. My hand is still moving up and down when I notice the contracture of certain muscle groups around Frieda’s lips. This makes no sense. Is this dog smiling?

I let go of her foot. What’s happening to me? Dogs can’t smile and “giving paw” is a learned response rewarded with food or physical attention. Reminding myself of these facts helps me regain a little composure, then I’m struck by something improbable—a few tiny flecks of what appears to be cracked pink nail polish clinging to her nail beds. This is unlikely to be the work of the man in the charcoal suit. Clearly, there is more to this dog’s story.

Frieda paws the air between us for a second time. I groan. This proximity to a living creature is as unfamiliar as it is disturbing. It is precisely why I have spent my entire veterinary career avoiding this kind of awkward encounter. Of course I can do this, all of this, everything it takes to be a general practice veterinarian (hey, finishing top of my class at veterinary school should count for something). Trouble is, the last time I worked on an animal with a heartbeat was the week before graduation, and with the passage of time I may have underestimated a certain … I don’t know … sentimentality … messing with the process.

“Let me clip a little fur, there we go.”

Frieda’s panting has ceased, and the rhythm of her tail is beginning to slow. I return the clippers to the counter, pick up the rubber tourniquet, lasso her forelimb, and tighten it in place. I sense her head starting to relax and feel the warm air of her sigh whistle past my cheek as she settles her chin across her free front paw.

Guess I’m not going to need that muzzle after all. Somehow, in spite of this alien encounter, Frieda remains content. Me, I can’t stop my hands from shaking.

I focus on the bald swatch of skin, wipe the surface with alcohol, and watch as the vein declares itself—plump and straight.

Golden retrievers are consistently one of the most popular breeds of dog, ranking fourth behind Labs, German shepherds, and beagles
.

The rapid thud of blood pulsing in my ears begins to slow. It’s a trick that rarely fails; a secret shared by an old anatomy instructor as a way to remain calm before an exam—the recitation of facts and observations. Always useful in high-pressure situations.

Arguably, golden retrievers have had more leading roles in movies than any other breed
.

Okay, so some of my factoids are not clinically relevant.

Roughly 60 percent of golden retrievers will die of cancer, a rate about twice as high as most other breeds
.

Perhaps I could tell myself that Frieda’s alleged incontinence stems from bladder cancer, an aggressive transitional cell carcinoma—inoperable and painful. If it were cancer, if I knew for sure, then I’d be doing her a favor by ending her suffering. I frown and shake my head. The truth is I’ll never know. I’m just trying to make myself feel better. If I’m going to pretend to be a real vet, even for a short time, then I must learn to embrace what for me is a totally foreign concept—clinical ambiguity.

Needle and syringe in hand, I risk a look into Frieda’s eyes. Big mistake. Though her head remains perfectly still, her tail picks up the pace.

“Good girl,” I manage, patting her head, betraying everything she sees in me as my trembling hand inserts the needle into the cephalic vein. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t make a sound. I pull back on the plunger, just like I was taught to do as a student, and a swirl of purple blood spins inside the syringe. I can’t believe it, I’m in on the first try.

This is it. Now, I may not be the most sentimental guy in the world, but even I understand that this is a moment when Frieda should hear the comforting words of a familiar voice, feel the comforting touch of a loved one. Thoughts of my late mother’s passing fill my head, the comparisons impossible to ignore. I shake the recollection from my head in an attempt to focus.

A golden retriever has never won Best in Show at Westminster
.

Standing in front of her I lean forward, move in close, middle and index finger stabilizing the plastic barrel, thumb extended, ready to drive the plunger home, and for the first time since we have met, Frieda’s tail has gone completely still.

I lift my head ever so slightly, and this time the tip of Frieda’s tongue licks me squarely on my nose. And that’s it. That’s all it takes for me to finally accept I can’t do this. I quickly pull out the needle and squeeze my thumb over the vein. I’d totally forgotten about the way this sort of interaction makes me feel. No,
forgotten
is not the right word.
Forgotten
suggests something that faded over time, and, to be honest, I’ve followed a career path that sidestepped or suppressed precisely this kind of intense emotional confrontation. I guess I was never meant to be the kind of veterinarian who’s ready with a comforting word or a shoulder to cry on.

Ten thousand cats and dogs are euthanized in the United States every day
.

Best make that ten thousand minus one
.

“This does not bode well,” I say out loud, my mind moving beyond this specific fiasco to everything else I will have to endure in order to get out of the mess I’m in. How I crave the soothing dead silence of my regular audience.

What am I going to do?
This crisis just shifted from tricky to disastrous. It’s more than the golden fur ball staring up at me expectantly; it’s the bigger problem of what forced me back to this very room, to this very town, for the first time in twenty-five years.

Suddenly Frieda’s tail stops wagging, like she’s tuned in to something. And that’s when we both hear it—the jingle of the bell over the front door.

Is Mr. Charcoal Suit back to see the deed is done?

We hear the sound of approaching footfalls. There’s nowhere to hide, and I can’t think of a good explanation.

A cursory double tap, the examination room door swings open, and Frieda and I stare back like thieves with our hands (and paws) in the till.

“Evening, Dr. Mills. You’re still here? How was your first night? Who’s your golden oldie?”

Frieda is unwilling to wait for a formal introduction and goes straight into an unrestrained and physical greeting similar to the one she bestowed upon me.

“Lewis, meet Frieda. My one and only case of the evening.”

Dr. Fielding Lewis is an odd little man—ebullient, a close-talker sporting a ridiculously full head of gray hair for a seventy-three-year-old and, despite the late hour, obviously inclined to wearing colorful, silk bow ties. According to Lewis, he and the late Dr. Robert Cobb were best friends and professional rivals for the last fifteen years. And though he only works part-time, Lewis is the saving grace of this veterinary practice, a practice still burdened with the preposterous name The Bedside Manor for Sick Animals. What remains of this business may be on life support, but without the selfless dedication of Dr. Fielding Lewis, I have no doubt it would have flatlined long ago.