The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel (9 page)

I grab the trusty bag of tricks, Lewis’s “doctorin’ bag,” from the passenger seat, jump down from the cab, and trudge through the snow. A path has been shoveled to the front door, a good six feet of snowbank on either side, but there’s no doorbell. Somewhere inside I can hear the sound of conversation and then gunfire, from a television. I rap hard on the wood. Nothing. I try again. Still nothing. How old is Harry Carp? And what kind of a guard dog is Clint?

I don’t see as I have much choice. I wade, waist deep in powder, toward a window, hoping it is a kitchen or living room, hoping someone or something will see me. I have to tap on the glass before man or beast register they have a visitor. Harry Carp makes a show of his apology as something moves in the shadows, barking in either welcome or disapproval—I can’t tell which. I wade back to the door and dust myself down before it swings open.

“Easy, Clint,” says a man who has to be in his eighties, one hand pressed firmly into the grip of a walking cane as he leans in for support. Once upon a time he was probably a formidable man, but now his chest is more barrel than broad, as if transformed by diseases in his heart or lungs. His spine has succumbed to the weight and curvature of time, his scalp bears more liver spots than wispy remnants of hair, and myopia has left his cloudy blue eyes magnified in buggy frames. “I’m Harry. You must be Cyrus. Come on in.” Harry extends his free hand and we shake, the grip dry and firm. But it’s his fingernails that get my attention. The beds are bruised. One or two and I might excuse a clumsy blow from a hammer, but not all of them. I can’t help myself. My brain begins to rev.

“Sorry I didn’t hear you, Clint and I were watching our movie.”

Harry talks between breaths, regaining control after the exertion of his trek to the front door, but I’m surprised by how much genuine pleasure he appears to derive from our encounter. It’s more than smiling; he’s beaming, lit up and alive, as though I might have crossed an ocean to get here. I wonder if he lives alone. I wonder about the tire tracks in the driveway. I wonder when the last time he had a visitor was.

“Okay, Mr. Carp,” I say. “I assume this is Clint?”

The dog takes a tentative step toward me. I stand my ground and try not to look afraid. Clint is a black, short-haired mutt and based on his body shape and head he’s definitely got some Labrador retriever somewhere in the mix. But his legs and his tail are not right. His legs are way too short and bowed, like a basset hound’s, and his tail is long and curls into a bold and brazen
C
, like something better suited to an arctic breed.

“Hello … Clint.”

Clint begins sniffing the hem of my pants. I look up at Harry, who seems puzzled by my hesitation. I should say some thing. I should do something.

“Bet he can’t swim?”

My question, admittedly out of left field, goes unanswered, and I can’t tell if Harry didn’t hear it or thinks it’s so stupid it’s best ignored.

“The basset hound in Clint,” I explain. “Basset hounds can’t swim. Or not very well. Same with bulldogs, pugs, dachshunds …”

“You going to say hello to the dog or not?”

I nod, as though appreciative of the advice, and deliver a couple of halfhearted pats. Fortunately Clint circles back to his master’s side before I have a chance.

“See, right there. Normally Clint would be all over you. You’d have to peel
her
off .”

“Her?”

Harry grins. “Come on through to the living room and you can take a look.”

I stamp out a couple of snow waffles with my boots and step into a dark hallway. To my left is a kitchen, tight but tidy, and straight ahead is a set of wooden stairs leading to a second floor that I doubt Harry has seen in quite some time. We head right, the heat from a wood-burning stove upon me long before I enter a small sitting room. There’s a run-down couch, a shabby La-Z-Boy chair, and between the two what appears to be a large and noticeably pristine dog bed. The seating arrangements are angled toward a television, and on the screen I recognize the iconic frozen picture.

“The man himself,” I say.

“Of course,” says Harry, “but do you recognize which movie?”

The picture is of Clint Eastwood in a Stetson and poncho, cigarillo between his lips.

“Well, based on his age and outfit, he’s playing The Man with No Name, so it’s from the Sergio Leone spaghetti western trilogy. But with only this single frame, I’d still be guessing.”

Harry looks pleased. “Movie buff?”

“You betcha,” I reply, though an ever-tightening budget forced me to drop Netflix and I can’t afford basic cable, which means no Turner Classic Movies.

“The first,” he says. “The original.
A Fistful of Dollars
.”

I nod.
A Fistful of Dollars
was actually a remake of Akira Kurosawa’s
Yojimbo
. But I keep quiet.

“You ever want to see a Clint Eastwood movie, they’re all there.”

Harry gestures to a wall taken over with row upon row of VHS tapes with hand-labeled stickers on their spines. It’s the kind of collection that would have given Blockbuster a run for their money in the days when schlepping back and forth in a car for a movie seemed like a good idea.

“You got
Rawhide
?”

“Of course.”

“
Gran Torino
?”

“Yep.”

I wait a beat, but have to ask, “
Bridges of Madison County
?”

Harry’s smile vanishes.

Oops
.

“Perhaps we should get back to talking about Clint. Clint the
female
dog.”

She’s on her bed, curled up. She seems friendly enough, but then they always do, don’t they? I place my bag off to one side and squat down, nice and slow, like I’m trying to interact with a gorilla not a dog. I register the spring in my knees, feel the muscles coiling tight, ready to leap for cover at the first sign of trouble. Clint closes her eyes.

“She’s my sixth Clint.”

My hand hovers, finally makes contact with fur. She doesn’t flinch.

“It’s only a name, you know. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have a problem with it.”

I nod, looking up and past him over at a table on the other side of the room. It’s covered in prescription bottles, presumably his. Next to it, standing at attention, is a portable green oxygen cylinder.

“What’s going on?”

Suddenly I see the shift in the man, a certain clarity taking shape in those big blue eyes as we get down to it. “Well, she’s about to turn eleven. She’s always had a good appetite. The Labrador in her, I guess. But she’s off her food. I had chicken last night, and she normally helps me out when I can’t finish up. She managed a sniff, but that was about it. All she wants to do is sleep. That’s not my Clint.”

“How often does she get table scraps?” There’s enough accusation in the question for him to know I don’t approve.

“Not often,” says Harry, but he’s not fooling me.

I hear Lewis inside my head,
Strive for a friendly chat, not an interrogation
.

“What about going to the bathroom?” I ask, inwardly cringing at being so nonscientific.

“She’s not had a bowel movement for days. Is that bad?”

For a few difficult seconds I’m the actor who hasn’t even read the script let alone forgotten his lines. Where’s Lewis when I need him? My audience of one is waiting, and Harry’s apprehension is tangible. I feel the heat in my cheeks, claustrophobic from the imposing coziness of the room, and oppressed by the weight of a strange responsibility to a frail old man.

“Not necessarily.” I should fess up and tell him I’m in over my head. “You still take her for walks?”

“I wish,” says Harry. “My granddaughter takes care of that. She lives with us. Looks after us. These days I’m lucky if I can manage to watch from the back door.”

I nod.
The tire tracks on the driveway
. My uncertainty about what other questions to ask leaves me hanging in another awkward silence. And that’s when the letters
ADR
pop into my head. ADR is an acronym students learn at veterinary school, a term applied to an animal with a vague, nonspecific illness. Yes, it could be said that Clint is ADR but, to a trained pathologist who craves scientific accuracy, the label ADR is distressingly vague. That’s because ADR means, of all things, “Ain’t Doin’ Right!” ADR is not a disease. ADR produces no characteristic changes in the body. I cannot see, find, or palpate ADR. ADR is all about an owner’s gut feeling, and I prefer facts to hunches.

Only one thing to do: gather information, pass it on to Lewis, and leave it in his capable hands.

“Right then. Um … up you come.” To my surprise, Clint gets to her feet. She even concedes a swish of her tail but not much more. I pull out my stethoscope and listen.

Resting heart rate, normal dog, 60 to 160 beats per minute. I consult my wristwatch. Check. Lub-dub, lub-dub, even rhythm, synchronous pulses. Check.

As soon as everything sounds what I would consider to be normal, the doubt starts up, questioning how, after fourteen years, can I possibly conclude that a canine heart sounds normal?
But there is a normal rhythm and no audible murmurs
.

I move on to Clint’s belly, and here, to my surprise, I make a discovery in which I have confidence.

“She’s definitely tender in her abdomen.”

High up under the rib cage Clint lets me dig deep, tickling her liver and spleen, but in the core of her belly, her abdominal muscles tighten into a six-pack worthy of an Abercrombie & Fitch model, guarding against inquisitive fingers.

“Any diarrhea?” I ask.

“No.”

I invite Harry to lay a hand on her head, pull out a rectal thermometer, a tube of K-Y gel, make my apologies, and take her temperature.

Normal canine body temperature ranges from about 100 to 103 degrees Fahrenheit. “One oh two point four,” I say, “perfectly acceptable.” I get to my feet.

“What do you think? Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

I recall Doc Lewis’s advice about handling the clientele of Eden Falls, and honesty feels like the least this man deserves. “No, Harry, I can’t.”

Harry nods, disappointed but still with me.

“Though it’s obvious Clint doesn’t feel great. I think I should take a blood sample, send it off to a lab, see if we can get some answers via that route. Have a seat, and I’d appreciate you securing her head while I take a sample.”

Harry comes around, negotiating the La-Z-Boy. He catches me as I help him into his chair. “I promise you, she won’t bite.”

I want to tell him how I’ve heard that one before, but there’s a flinty conviction in his eyes. I’m obliged to believe him as Harry gets comfy, trailing a hand, playing with her ear. Clint seems to melt into Harry’s familiar touch. I can’t help but think about how even alligators can be hypnotized.

I find a sterile needle and syringe, a small bottle of alcohol and a cotton ball, appropriate collection tubes, and a thick elastic band to wrap around Clint’s front leg as a tourniquet. I take a deep breath, stick the vein, brace for the scream, snap, and fury. Nothing happens. She never even notices. But the smile on Harry’s face tells me he has.

“Uh … well done,” I say, transferring my sample of fresh venous blood to the tubes. “I’ll have these mailed off as soon as I get back to Bedside Manor.”

Harry gets up with difficulty. I return everything to the bag and pick it up.

“Hope you don’t mind, I’ll let you see yourself out.”

“Not at all,” I say. “I’ll be in touch.”

Harry does not make to shake hands.

“Can I say something?” he asks.

Uh-oh. Lewis said all they want is a friendly chat.

“Sure.”

Harry Carp looks away and works those bruised fingers on the silver stubble of his chin. Then his hands drop to his sides as he looks me directly in the eye. The expression on his face is serious, sincere. I want to look away as my heartbeat begins to quicken.

“You a religious man?”

The question catches me off guard, and I’m trapped in an agnostic moment of hesitation. “Not really.”

“But you believe in God?”

“I guess.”

My deliberation has him worried.

“Put it this way, you like the idea of there being some kind of higher power out there, somewhere, capable of giving you unconditional love no matter what?”

“Yes, yes I do.”

Harry regards his dog, and his dog continues to stare up at him. “Me too,” he says, nodding into a tight-lipped smile. “Only I’ve been blessed with that kind of love every day from this crazy-looking mutt! You reckon our pets are tuned in to God?”

I try to hide my skepticism in an appreciative nasal laugh.

“See, time moves fast when you get to be my age. The rest of the world has better places to be, better company to keep.” Harry tries to touch Clint’s head, his arthritic spine keeping him at bay until Clint reads the situation, rears up on her back legs, and completes the physical connection. “But this particular young lady is totally tuned in to yours truly. I am her world and she is mine, the constant of my life, the reminder that nothing else matters if we have each other.”

Once again I feel the flush in my cheeks and I can’t tell whether it’s the oppressive warmth of the room or my discomfort at being privy to Harry’s candor. I’m worried it might be the latter.

“You can tell I’m not a well man. My granddaughter’s an angel, and I really mean that. Does everything for me, but hey, there’s only so much you can do for a heart that’s ready to quit. Look …” Harry pauses. A tremor has crept into his voice. He swallows hard. “If I die tomorrow, I know Clint will be well taken care of. I know she will cope. But … but if my Clint goes before me …”

Fear dances on his tongue, constricting his vocal cords, and I watch as a proud old man tries to keep it together. For a while, I think he might make it, but Clint, sensing her master’s need, roots for his touch, and that’s all it takes. Eighty years vanish in an instant and Harry is crying like a little boy. His shoulders are heaving and he is barely managing jerky breaths.

I just stand there, unable to move. It’s hard enough for me to be a real veterinarian let alone a psychiatrist or a grief counselor. I’m reminded why I chose a career path that avoids these … sentimental encounters. In fact it’s why I’ve avoided all manner of emotional confrontations for my entire adult life. My heart is where it’s supposed to be. Buried deep and well protected in my chest.