The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel (3 page)

Lewis tries to tear himself away from Frieda’s embrace. “What’s she in for?”

I work an imaginary itch at the back of my head.

“Well, I was having a hard time processing what I was asked to do.”

Lewis stops patting Frieda and considers me. “What exactly were you asked to do?”

Frieda tolerates his dereliction of duty for no more than two seconds. She barks, and it is his turn to relent.

I wince. “Put her to sleep.”

He stops patting Frieda again. I can’t tell whether the dog is incredulous or offended. Either way, she circles back to settle beneath my right palm.

“It can be tricky working alone on a rambunctious animal,” says Lewis. “I’d be more than happy to restrain her while you give the injection.”

“That’s not the problem.”

I hesitate and watch Lewis cant his head ever so slightly to one side, pushing his lips forward into a pensive pucker.

“Then what is?”

He’s waiting for an answer, but at the same time, I can tell he doesn’t expect to get one. How do I put the feelings into words? Answer: don’t even try. Stick with what you know best.

“The problem is killing a dog charged with bouts of inappropriate urination based on nothing more than hearsay and circumstantial evidence.”

Lewis flashes a wry smile. “But, Cyrus, I thought you of all people would be used to death and detachment.”

“I am,” I say, though this synopsis of my career as a pathologist feels a little harsh.

“Our profession has an enormous responsibility when it comes to euthanasia. We’re a service industry, and sadly, in the eyes of the law, pets are still considered property. Of course there are times when I wish I could convince an owner not to put an animal to sleep, but once the decision’s been made, and we’ve accepted the task, our duty is to see it through. We’re not in the animal rescue business. We simply can’t afford to be.”

Lewis puts the lecture on hold as he considers me. “Is there something else you’re not telling me?”

I sense he’s pushing buttons, continuing to probe, trying to crack me open. Perhaps I can get away with something evasive but still true.

“You see, Fielding … the thing is … um … I’ve never been the person actually responsible for the act of taking a life.”

Lewis leans back. “You’ve never performed a euthanasia?”

I shake my head.

“Do you want me to do it?”

The creature remains content below my hand, gently panting, eyes closed. “Certainly not.”

“Then what the hell are you going to do?” I think this is the first time I have heard Lewis raise his voice. “I mean this does not exactly constitute exemplary professional conduct, and for a man in your, how shall I put it,
delicate
situation, I’m pretty sure any hint of misrepresentation or deceit is the last thing we need.”

I wipe my palms down my face and rest my fingertips over my lips. He’s absolutely right. The word
delicate
is an understatement. You see, in order to practice veterinary medicine at Bedside Manor, I need to be licensed in the state of Vermont, which should be a formality for an appropriately credentialed doctor of good standing. However, for a doctor whose out-of-state license has been suspended, pending a hearing, it’s a major problem. Lewis is the only person who knows. It doesn’t matter that the charges against me are a total fabrication, a vendetta by a former employer for filing a wrongful termination lawsuit. It doesn’t matter that this has nothing to do with clinical negligence or malpractice. What does matter (more than I can tell him to his face) is that Lewis believes and supports me, 100 percent. That’s why I explained to him that I would keep my head down, make sure my reputation remains unsullied and beyond reproach, and no one will be the wiser. At least until I achieve what I set out to do with Bedside Manor. What could possibly go wrong?

“Thing is, there’s something not right about this dog.”

Lewis scoffs, realizes I’m serious, and comes over to squeeze my shoulder. He’s way too touchy-feely for my liking.

“Cyrus, I don’t mean to be critical, but
you
were the one who said you’d never worked a single day as a
real
veterinarian. Real was your word, not mine. Suddenly, with your very first case, you’re telling me you have acquired a sixth sense about a maligned golden retriever.”

I force a smile. “Indulge me. Let’s give this dog the benefit of my doubt.”

“What doubt?”

“Doubt about the owner’s motive for getting rid of her.”

Lewis releases his grip. “Who is the owner?”

The realization of my rookie mistake paralyzes the muscles of the old man’s face.

“I’m sorry,” I say, annoyed at the whiny high pitch of my voice. “He walked right in, demanding to put her to sleep. I’ve been in town one night, I’ve no idea what I’m doing, and my first customer demands I kill his dog. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Lewis looks at the retriever. “I don’t recognize her. Are we sure this is Frieda? I don’t see a collar or a name tag.”

“Frieda,” I call. Frieda twitches her ears and stares directly at me.
“Quod erat demonstrandum.”

Lewis rolls his eyes, shakes his head. “Brandy,” he calls. The dog formerly known as Frieda twitches her ears and stares directly at Lewis.

“Point taken,” I say, “but I don’t think he would have made up a name like Frieda.”

Lewis does not look convinced. He begins to pace. Suddenly he stops. “Where’s the consent form?”

My hesitation, raised finger, and slow inhalation tell him everything.

“So I’ll assume you never discussed the disposition of the body, general or private cremation, the type of urn required, etcetera.”

“I couldn’t find the paperwork. I told you, it’s been a long, long time since any of this stuff even crossed my mind.”

“Cyrus, this is bad. This is exactly the sort of thing that will sink us before we even get started. I mean what if the dog has been stolen? What if she doesn’t belong to the man who brought her in? What if he’s a disgruntled neighbor who hates dogs? What if the dog is part of a custody dispute, and he’s trying to punish his ex-wife by killing off her beloved retriever? You’ve got to wake up to the real world of veterinary medicine. The pet-owning public can be your conduit to the truth. If you want to keep this practice alive, you must learn to interact with them, you must learn to interpret their meaning, and you must learn that they are not always telling the truth.”

I look away to stop myself from spilling the awful secret I’m keeping inside. “Who said anything about keeping this practice alive?”

Utterly discredited, I grab a can of weight-loss prescription dog food from a shelf in the waiting room and let Frieda drag me by her cord across the main work area, through a door out back, and up a stairway to the living quarters on the second floor. In the right hands this house might have been a fine sprawling Victorian, but as far as I can tell, it’s a dilapidated husk of its former self—rotted siding, loose gutters, missing shingles, the list goes on and on. House hold chores and maintenance were clearly low priorities for the late Doc Cobb. Bedside Manor may not be the house all the kids fear on Halloween, but I’m pretty sure its restoration lies beyond the budget of most TV home improvement shows.

At the top of the stairs there’s a heavy door, meant to ensure privacy and help muffle the sounds of barking dogs. Frieda barges through, slips her leash, and takes off down the central hallway. She seems to know exactly what she is looking for—the kitchen. I follow her, ignoring the bubbling and peeling floral wallpaper as I pass the spare room that was deemed Dr. Robert Cobb’s office. The door is closed, and I have no desire to go inside. It’s uncomfortable enough to be here in this part of the building. It’s like I’ve been left alone in a stranger’s home, and even though its smells, its settling creaks and moans, its chill, and its shadows spark many memories, I feel like a trespasser.

The golden sits on the cracked tile floor in front of a purple Post-it note stuck to the refrigerator door. It’s from Mrs. Lewis. She’s too kind. Knowing I was arriving today, this woman I’ve never met warmed up the house, made my bed, and stocked the refrigerator with a few basic provisions. A few? I open the door and discover the fridge is full, packed with enough labeled Tupperware containers of precooked meals for a week.

“I’m not sure you really need a last supper, but let’s see if I can find …”

Am I talking to the dog? Of course not. I’m merely thinking aloud as I locate a can opener and an empty bowl. Frieda eats as you might expect, like she was headed for the electric chair.

While the retriever makes a thorough inspection of the rest of the house I take a seat at the dining room table, its handcrafted oak surface obscured by a paperwork volcano overflowing with bills and statements and final notices. This flagrant disorganization is as physically unbearable as it is mind-boggling. Earlier in the day, I started to organize things into what’s been paid and what’s come due. So far, there’s nothing in the paid pile. Lewis told me Cobb had been sick for months, but he and I both know the fiscal and managerial neglect of this practice has been years in the making. Cobb may have been lauded as a great veterinarian, but he was a lousy businessman. So far everything is so overdue that accounts have been closed and lines of credit canceled. It looks like the practice has not been able to purchase or restock any basic medications for several months. The service contract for the X-ray equipment has not been renewed and the company will no longer supply radiographic films or chemicals. All unopened envelopes bearing the name Green State Bank in their top left-hand corner have been stockpiled to create a precarious tower.

I rock forward and suddenly there’s fur underneath my right hand. Frieda is back. In less than an hour she’s already become a creature of habit. “And you’re not helping matters.” Okay, this time I admit it, I’m talking directly to the dog. She watches the words leave my lips, and though she cannot possibly understand me my mind provides her with a silent comeback: “And whose fault is that?”

I look at her. I look at the pile of bills. It’s an easy call. “You want to go for a walk?”

Despite a hint of a low-country accent infecting my vowels, a new round of excitement tells me Frieda picked up on the
w
word. We head to the hallway closet. I find her a decent collar and leash and borrow some winter attire, which I am thankfully unaccustomed to wearing—duck boots, a winter coat, and a plaid cap with faux fur earflaps.

Having spent the better part of my life living well below the Mason-Dixon line, my expectation of winter means digging out a windbreaker and the possibility of a light frost. Stepping outside, I pine for the South. This cold is breathtaking. Lewis suggested I shave off my beard, saying, “Doctors shouldn’t look like Grizzly Adams, even in Vermont.” Now I wish I’d kept the facial hair. Someone has inserted tiny stiff frozen straws inside my nostrils, and I can feel the chill licking around my teeth and permeating bone. Did I mention how much snow they get up here? It’s only January and they’ve already cracked one hundred inches.

It’s a cloudy moonless night, so I’m reluctant to enter the cross-country ski trails through the woodlands out back. This leaves us with two options. Turn left out of the practice lot or turn right. Left takes you toward the center of town, not necessarily a good thing when you’re walking a Lazarus dog. And I can’t risk running into Frieda’s mystery owner until I figure out what to do with her. So I turn right, toward the outskirts of suburban sprawl, Frieda intent on dislocating my shoulder.

I’ve always been a fast walker. Hate to dawdle. If you need to get from A to B, why not do it as quickly and efficiently as possible. But here in Siberia I discover a problem. The sidewalks offer about as much grip as a slick bobsled run. In patches, hand-tossed salt has cut through to asphalt or concrete, but for the most part I’m inclined to shuffle along like an old man with a bad case of hemorrhoids. Frieda has other ideas. She appears to have nails like crampons, clawing at the ice, driving forward while I windmill and flail in order to keep up. “Easy, Frieda, easy.”

Two things become apparent. Frieda is not used to being walked on a leash and Frieda is inordinately fussy about going to the bathroom. Although a number of telephone poles and lampposts require careful consideration, she drags me a good five hundred yards up the street before finding a spot she deems acceptable. I wonder if this has something to do with her urinary problems. Ignoring a glance that implores me to avert my eyes and respect her privacy, I pay attention for straining, urine flow, urine volume, and the presence of a “clean finish.” Her buildup and preparation may be more froufrou lapdog than hardy gundog, but as far as I can tell everything seems to be working just fine.

“All done?” Damn, there I go again. Worse still, I repeat the question in a whisper, as though fewer decibels will make this one-sided conversation acceptable.

Frieda scratches up a couple of icy stripes with her back paws, and to her dismay, I begin to head back in the direction we came. I’m not going to apologize—it’s so cold I’ve lost all sensation in my face, and that pile of paperwork isn’t going anywhere without me.

About halfway back to the house I notice something in front of us twinkling in the darkness. Before long it’s become a concentrated spot of light, hovering, arcing back and forth, and then there’s a figure, a woman, swinging a flashlight with each step she takes, a stocky four-legged creature by her side.

I turn up the collar on my winter coat, tug down on the brim of my hat, and rein in Frieda’s leash a little tighter. By the time I’ve realized that the woman’s disturbing Princess Leia haircut is actually a pair of bulky earmuffs, they are upon us, a black Labrador intent on saying hello. Like a novice water-skier behind a speedboat, the woman hangs on for dear life until the ice underfoot gets the better of her, the leash slips, and before I know it she is literally crashing into me.

“I’m so sorry,” she exclaims, clutching me tightly. It’s as if an enormous leech has glommed onto my body. And then, shining the beam of her flashlight in my face, she says, “Well, well. Lucky me, saved by a knight in shining armor.”