The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel (20 page)

Look at her. This child is suffering. Put an end to it right now
.

I think about turning around, asking the two of them to come with me, to hurry back to Bedside Manor. But what happens next? What will my actions mean for this family? What will my actions mean for their dog? Inside my head I curse the fact that Brendon Small didn’t answer the door.

“Nobody has showed up with an injured golden retriever or a sick golden retriever answering to the name of Frieda.”

“It’s Frieda Fuzzypaws.”

“Sorry, Frieda Fuzzypaws. I stand corrected.”

Emily’s distress is not to be assuaged. “Why can’t she find her way home?”

I think about Frieda camped out in front of my refrigerator. I don’t know what to say. Argue that canine GPS is a myth? What if she’s seen
Lassie
or
The Incredible Journey
?

“What if someone kidnapped her?”

Anne Small dips down at her knees and gently cups her daughter’s face in her hands. “No one would do that, sweetheart. She’s wearing her collar.”

“But what if they did? What if a bad man took her?” Emily begins to sob into her mother’s chest and I stand there, useless, praying the floor will open up and suck me down into the darkest, deepest chasm where I belong.

Anne looks up at me and gives me a reassuring smile. “Hey, your show’s on.”

From over in the den, what appears to be a talking yellow sponge fills a television screen, and like that, Emily seems okay, leaping for the sofa, wrapping herself up in a blanket, happy to be hypnotized and away from this painful reality. On the cushions next to her, I recognize a familiar calling card—the remnants of a golden fleece.

“Let me grab another poster for your practice. I won’t be a second.” Anne disappears, and with Emily transfixed by a talking invertebrate, I inch my way into the dining room. Two dog bowls lie by the back door of the kitchen—one for food, one for water. Both are full, as if being ready for Frieda’s arrival can somehow make it happen. On top of a sideboard are a portable phone and a series of family photos.

Why am I drawn to these glimpses into other people’s lives? Is it because I want to see what’s missing in my own? I’m struck by a certain consistency to the composition: husband, wife, and child; child not in the middle, but always on one end, next to Mommy, in Mommy’s arms, or on Mommy’s lap. Though Brendon is not Emily’s biological father it’s clear the Smalls feel obliged to act like a normal family for at least the split second it takes to say “cheese.” If such a photo exists for the Cobbs, then I’ve never seen it.

Anne Small strides toward me, a hollow baton of rolled-up poster tapping in the palm of her hand.

“Sorry I missed your husband,” I say, tipping my chin toward the photographs.

“Yeah, he’s out interviewing for a job.” We share a frozen moment before she confides, “Third one this month.”

“Well … that’s good,” I say, to be saying something.

Mrs. Small’s focus settles on her spellbound daughter. “You don’t understand,” she says as her voice starts to quiver, “I’m a stay-at-home mom. Brendon got laid off eight months ago.” She turns to me, unable to conceal the anguish. “We’ve missed the last two mortgage payments. Last week one of the cars was repossessed. I don’t know how long we can hold on to the satellite and the electricity and the phones and …”

“It’s a tough economy.”

The good mother’s eyes flick back to Emily, making sure she is not eavesdropping, making sure she is spared the truth.

“He wants to work. He wants to provide. He just needs a chance. It’s stressful, you know.”

I can only meet her eyes for so long. I’m clenching my fists. She must sense my desire to run.

She forces a laugh that sounds more like a gasp. “Listen to me, talking to a doctor about stress. You know more about it than me. Working long hours. Always on call. Dealing with emotionally distraught owners.”

Trapped in shut-up-and-listen mode, I relinquish a stiff smile.

“I imagine your job is pretty recession proof. People will always want to look after their animals.”

“Yes, but you’d be surprised,” I say, deciding to push my luck. “Sometimes, as much as someone wants to do the right thing, they simply cannot afford it. I imagine it can be a tough choice, whether to treat a sick animal or put food on the table or a roof over your head.”

“Oh, no. There’s nothing to think about. As bad as things are right now, I could never imagine any scenario in which I would deny our Frieda veterinary care.”

I feel like the best man who discovers the groom is cheating on his bride on the day before their wedding.

“Those people”—she spits out the word—“should not have a pet. Not ever. And they are certainly not the sort of people I want to be associated with. I mean what kind of a person would do that?”

I try to swallow, but there’s no saliva in my mouth.

“Any chance of a glass of water?”

“Sure.”

I follow Mrs. Small into the kitchen, but a new awareness of my surroundings stops me in my tracks.

“Nice floors,” I say, as though in a trance.

“Thank you. They’re reclaimed pine. We had them done last year. Back when life was good and the living was easy.”

I hear a cabinet open and imagine her reaching inside for a glass. Whatever she just said passed straight through me. I’m not looking and I’m not listening because right now I’m distracted, busy working out how this situation came to be, piecing together the real reason behind my fateful meeting with Brendon and Frieda. It was the glossy, bowling alley sheen of the hardwood floor that did it (you really thought I was making polite conversation), drawing the eye to a solitary discolored area, an obvious patch where a dog with a chronic urinary tract problem might dull the patina. And the location, right in front of the fridge, made perfect sense—proven to be Frieda’s favorite spot in the house.

I watch with openmouthed fascination as Anne Small fills my glass with water from a dispenser built into the door of a refrigerator peppered with crayon drawings of a magical golden dog. And I keep my eye on the dispenser, ignoring the drink that slides across a butcher-block counter toward me.

“Everything okay?”

I take it all in—the floor, the dispenser, the location. I bounce a clenched fist on my lower lip.
It makes perfect sense
.

“Sorry?”

“I asked if everything was okay,” says Mrs. Small. “Looked like I’d lost you for a moment there.”

I pick up the glass and knock back its contents like a shot of tequila.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Knowing that everything will be okay, so long as I can convince Brendon Small that he’s been wrong, in more ways than one.

Standing on Mr. Greer’s front porch, hand poised over the door knocker, the infinite rural silence is spoilt only by the metallic tinkle of the truck’s cooling muffler, until Toby the terrier senses a breach in security. His bark is so piercing, so merciless, I take a step backward, and as I do, I notice the shadowy figure of a neighbor across the street, sweeping back a curtain, rapping on the window and shouting obscenities as if I were the source of the disturbance.

“Ah, Dr. Mills, Peter Greer, an absolute pleasure to meet you. Do come in.”

My head is angled upward, since Greer has to be six four or six five, a three-hundred-pound bear in his late fifties for whom his crushing handshake might feel like a polite squeeze. If he’s trying to keep the mood homey and casual in his slippers and heavy woolen cardigan, it’s not working because, of all things, I’m hooked on his haircut, which is decidedly less laid-back than his outfit. Though the color is still more black than gray, the cut is trendy and foppish, necessitating an occasional sweeping hand gesture to pull it back from his forehead, and this, together with his plummy English accent, makes me feel as though he prefers to flaunt an aura of dashing flamboyance.

“And this is my coconspirator, Toby.” The terrier’s shrill soprano downgrades to a grumbling baritone as Greer bends down low to scoop him up, affording me an unwelcome and unexpected glimpse of his silky red boxers.

“Your neighbor seems a little upset,” I say, stepping inside.

“Sam from across the street?” Greer closes the door. “He’s fine. His own bark is far worse than his bite. This way.”

Sam. The old man from the diner with the cotton candy beard, complaining to Chief Matt about Toby’s barking. Now I remember.

“I hope this won’t take too long,” I say as I’m led into a sitting room. “I have a patient to check in on.”

“Of course you do.”

Do I detect a hint of insincerity?

“Please, have a seat. Help yourself to the nuts and I’ll grab us both a drink. I’m trying out a new Malbec. Sound good?”

“Not for me, thanks.” If ever I need to be sharp and focused, now is the time.

“Oh, I absolutely insist.”

And before I can reply, I’m left alone to explore. I do my best to ignore another copy of Frieda’s “Missing” poster on Greer’s cluttered desk and instead investigate a mantelpiece over a brick fireplace, which is bookended by a collection of photos and engraved plaques with a common theme: golf. The language is foreign to me (Canadian foursome, Texas scramble) but one name, Greer’s partner and fellow runner-up in the club’s mixed doubles tournament, I recognize: Virginia Weidmeyer. I pick up the plaque, and suddenly, from somewhere behind me, I hear a malevolent snarl. Toby must have crept into the room with the preternatural stealth of a ninja assassin. I remember Lewis’s warning about this hairy banshee and brace for the sensation of hungry fangs sinking deep into my ankles.

“Here we go,” says Greer, breezing into the room with an uncorked bottle of red wine and two large glasses in hand. “Ah, you noticed the trophy collection. You play?”

“No. Never.” I look down at Toby, who now sits politely by his master’s side. He’s a handsome little fellow—white and tan, shorthaired, stocky and attentive to what is going on—but as soon as I make direct eye contact he emits a throaty grumble. “Ginny’s a client of mine,” I say, flashing Greer the plaque.

“Of course. Chelsea. Hardly seen hide nor hair of Ginny since that mooch, what’s his name … Steven, whisked her away. What on earth is she thinking? This stranger appears out of thin air at one of our member guest cocktail parties and no one has a clue who invited him and before the evening’s over they’re leaving together. You’ve met Ginny. Wonderful woman, cracking short game. Even if she is a tad past her sell-by date she’s still a smashing bit of crumpet. Am I right?”

I work to remain expressionless.

“And I’ve never once seen that man out on the course. As far as I can tell he’s a different kind of
playa
altogether,” Greer says, adding appropriate air quotes.

I replace the plaque and notice a photo of an attractive woman standing in front of the Eiffel Tower.

“My late wife, Susan. I bounced around this country, drifting from one dying newspaper to another, until she finally insisted on coming home to Vermont. We’d only been back three months when she was killed in a car crash.”

He grimaces at the recollection, but pushes on. Very British. Very stiff upper lip. His posh accent makes the word
crash
sound more like
crèche
.

“That was five years ago, and now look at me, editor in chief of the
Gazette
. Turns out this place suits me. You subscribe?”

“Not at the moment,” I say, feeling the need to add, “but I’m sure I will.”

I’m rewarded with a hearty slap on the back. Why is everyone in this town so physical?

“Please, don’t wait on ceremony.” Greer gestures to a love seat and a plush oversize chair positioned around a low glass coffee table on which sits a yellow legal pad, a pen, and an enormous bowl full of macadamia nuts. The love seat is covered in fine white hairs, so I choose the chair.

Greer sits opposite, pours two generous glasses of wine. “Cheers. Here’s mud in your eye.”

I scramble to sit forward, raise my glass, and take the smallest sip.

“Before we get started, I want you to know I was an enormous fan of your father’s.”

Here we go again. Exposed, inextricably linked, and not a subject of contempt. Is this why Lewis said Greer would spin the story in our favor? Maybe this interview will be more about publicity than journalism. And, if Lewis was right and Cobb never bad-mouthed me, then what did Cobb tell people about my absence from my mother’s funeral?

“Robert was always attentive to Toby’s anal sex problem.”

There’s no hiding the shock written on my face. “I beg your pardon.”

“Anal sex,” he repeats.

He must see that I’m flabbergasted.

“You know, the two sex, around his anus, the ones that fill up with a foul, odiferous fluid that needs to be emptied once a month.”

I calmly nod, as though I had understood all along. His posh English accent has translated
sacs
into
sex
.

“Right,” I say, “of course.” I look over at Toby roosting on his master’s right shoulder, and the terrier tries to smile. That is, if wrinkling his nose to expose his canines counts.

Greer reaches for pad and pen. “So, I imagine the gossip mongers have most of the details down pat. You deliver a kitten, owner gets nervous, goes into labor, and you deliver a healthy baby boy.” He waits for a response, a
that’s about it, right?
expression on his face. “I’m assuming you weren’t moved to tears or said something affecting or profound?”

I think about this. “No.”

“Didn’t think so,” he says, far too quickly for my liking. “You think your success with a cat and a human proves your versatility? I’ve heard it said that it’s harder to become a veterinarian than it is to become an MD. True?”

Is he trying to put words in my mouth?

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been an MD.”

Greer takes another gulp of his wine.

“How about this: your job is far more difficult because your patients won’t tell you where it hurts and you have to deal with a variety of different species and not just one.”

I try to lean forward in my chair, but almost nothing happens. I’m sitting in an upholstered Venus flytrap.