Dog Medicine

by Julie Barton

  “Four thousand.” I squeezed my eyes closed, opened one to peek at Chris’s reaction to this gargantuan amount of money.

  “Whoa. Okay.” I felt engulfed by doubt, ready for the quiet you’re on your own passivity of the average, defeated, not-my-problem kind of guy. But Chris said, “Well, gotta start somewhere. We’ll have a keg, put a bucket next to it with Bunk’s picture, ask for donations. And we’ll invite everyone. I swear, people will each give you at least twenty bucks.” My tears began again. “A hundred people, $20 each, two parties. BOOM! We’re all set.” I laughed and cried. Chris handed me a dishtowel for my tears and grabbed a pen off the counter. BUNKER KEGGER he wrote on the refrigerator calendar. “Next weekend good?” he said. I nodded and he hugged me again.

  I was sitting at the dining room table late that night, looking at my laptop and trying, for the first time, to access this thing people called the Internet. I was trying to sell bootlegged copies of the Halloween Ani DiFranco concert I’d attended at The Paramount Theater. I asked for $10 a tape, and a few people on Ani’s fan e-mail list ordered them. Melissa and Chris were already in bed, and Greg came in the front door. We made real, sustained eye contact, the first time since the Jason fiasco. My stomach sank when our eyes met.

  He put his backpack on the futon, sat down, and unlaced his shoes. I didn’t say anything. He came to the table, sat down in the chair next to mine, and said, “I heard.” I kept my eyes on the laptop, trying to hold back tears. I missed him. I missed his touch, his kiss, his kindness. But, right now, I knew I didn’t deserve him. “Chris told me on the phone. Four thousand?” he asked. The tears dripped down my cheeks, and I wanted to explode with apologies, begging Greg to forgive me. I thought of our talks in bed, our efforts to not laugh too loud as we shared stories and had begun falling in love. Why did I have to sabotage it? Why did Bunker have to be so broken?

  “I’m so sorry,” I muttered. Greg went to the kitchen. I assumed he was not ready for my stupid apology. I put my head in my hands, so incredibly angry at myself. I felt something on the back of my hand. Greg had gone through the kitchen to the TV room to get a box of tissues. He handed it to me and sat back down. I looked at him, wondering if I could ever possibly be worthy of his love.

  “I can loan you the money,” he said. “I have it. I’ve been saving money since I was a kid. I can give you the money you need to make Bunker better.”

  If an earthquake had tumbled me out of my chair and down Queen Anne Hill, I would’ve been less moved. Greg made pennies as a grad student. He had a small stipend that he lived on. He was as broke as the rest of us, but he still offered me his savings. I shook my head. “Thank you,” I said. “That’s so generous of you. You’re just so amazing and kind. I can’t accept it. I can’t. But thank you.”

  He put his hand on mine, as if he wanted to hold it, or say something. Instead he just squeezed gently, stood up, and walked upstairs to his room.

  THE BUNKER KEGGER

  FEBRUARY 1997

  The party was set for that next Saturday night. Greg and Chris picked up the keg and lugged it up the front stairs. Greg and I hadn’t talked about Jason, but he wasn’t entirely avoiding me. I assumed he needed more time to think about things, as did I. Will was still calling, but I found myself slightly less engaged by the conversations and often found ways to get off the phone quickly.

  Greg and Chris pulled the keg across the living room and Bunker watched with curiosity as they lifted it into a bright-blue bucket and poured ice all around.

  “Grocery store?” Melissa said. We drove to the Safeway at the top of the hill and stocked up on chips and salsa, pretzels, and M&Ms. In the checkout line at the store, Melissa said, “I got this. Put that money in the Bunker donation bucket.” I protested but she refused my money, and I stood humbled by the generosity of my friends.

  I perused the magazines at the checkout stand, not reading a word, just brimming with gratitude, wondering how I had found myself in this wonderful place. Melissa said hello to the cashier and I looked out the tall window at the greenness of this city, contemplating the kindness of the average Northwestern stranger and the sweetness of the fertile air. The wind brushed the tops of the evergreens in the parking lot on top of Queen Anne Hill, and I wanted to know what the wind was telling me. Was it a warning? A sign to be prepared for the coming tragedy? Or was it the same wind in the pine grove in Ohio, the one enveloping me, telling me that despite all the trouble around me, I would be okay?

  “You okay?” Melissa asked, as she put the key into the ignition of her rag-top Cabriolet. She’d had the car since high school and we joked about how we always knew she was pulling up to the house because the car sounded like a souped-up lawn mower.

  “Yeah,” I said quietly. “Actually, I’m good. I’m really good. I’m excited about this party. I think Bunker is too.” I fought the flash of frigid dread thinking about Bunker’s potential demise. My mind tripped back into the veterinary surgeon’s office. I could smell the doctor’s cologne mixed with the alcohol used to clean the metal tables. My heart raced, my throat constricted, as I once again considered his words, “. . . won’t live two years without treatment. One of the worst cases we’ve ever seen.”

  I wanted to tell Melissa how terrified I was, how desperately I needed Bunker to be okay, how I planned to jump in front of a truck if he died during surgery. Already I’d imagined scenarios of the veterinarian getting distracted, slipping with the scalpel and cutting a major artery, Bunker bleeding out onto the floor, his tongue hanging inert through his teeth. I’d pictured it all and worse. I watched my still-depressed mind develop a sinister plan. Most certainly, if Bunker didn’t survive, neither would I.

  People arrived at about ten. Friends from all corners of Seattle appeared at our door with cash in hand: graduate students from Greg’s lab, office mates from my temp job and Chris’s video editing company, Melissa’s college friends and co-workers. The bucket at the center of the dining room table began filling and Bunker’s happy picture in front of it was soon half hidden with dollar bills.

  I stood at the table telling everyone about Bunker’s diagnosis. Halfway through the night, I was overcome because we had created a circle of healing. People cared, and they showed it. They held their hands over their mouths as I explained Bunker’s debilitating condition. They knelt down in front of him as he leaned against me through much of the party, and they petted his soft head. He watched us all, making eye contact, letting his mouth fall open into a goofy smile, his long red tail feathers swishing back and forth. Bunker leaned into me as I spoke to people. I was his partner, and everyone here loved our connection.

  A few hours into the gathering, Chris and I stood in the kitchen and counted the money. We had almost four hundred dollars, and he advised I hide it in my room, just for safekeeping. I slipped it in between my mattress and box spring and noticed that Bunker had retreated to his crate, his eyes bloodshot and sleepy. As if we were connected psychically, I felt a searing pain in my lower back and hip. But I didn’t worry that there was something wrong with me.

  He couldn’t keep his eyes open as I sat down in front of the crate, noting that he was often tired too soon, too mellow and slow for a puppy. “We got you, buddy,” I said, easy tears coming again. “We’ll fix this.” A moment of recognition came and I thought of my father, trying his best to help me, to fix me when I was deeply depressed. I had a glimpse of the desperation he must have felt in the face of my suffering. But I had learned from his determination that even the biggest, scariest problems almost always had a solution.

  ON TOUR

  FEBRUARY 1997

  Will called again, this time to tell me that he was coming to Seattle. His new band was doing a West Coast tour. They were a hard-core punk band and they were playing in a club only a few miles from my house. “I’ll be there in one week,” he said. I knew that his arrival would bring mixed emotions for both of us. Part of me st
ill wasn’t over him. Part of me still loved him because the way things ended left me reeling, without closure. I told him I’d come see his show.

  When he called, saying he was in town, my stomach lurched. I wanted to see him, but I was trying hard to remember that he had betrayed me. When he asked me to come to the bar during their 6 p.m. sound check, I reluctantly agreed. But I couldn’t imagine going alone. I needed a friend. Melissa was busy, and it would’ve been more awkward to show up with her than alone.

  So I took Bunker with me. I told Will to meet me outside the bar, that I had someone important that I wanted him to meet. I also figured Bunker was a good excuse not to stay long. If Will didn’t love my dog, my choice was easy. Would he sink to his knees and pet Bunker? Would he acknowledge him at all?

  I walked up the sidewalk with Bunker on a leash and saw Will, his unmistakable silhouette, skinny legs swimming in baggy jeans. He saw me too and started walking. We hugged and the first thing he said was, “You brought your dog?”

  “I wanted you two to meet,” I said. “Bunker, this is Will. Will, this is Bunker.”

  “Well, he can’t come into the venue,” Will said, and right then I knew.

  “I know,” I said. “I can’t stay. I just wanted to say hi.”

  “You all good? You okay?” Will asked. In his words I heard questions I wasn’t willing to address.

  “Yep,” I said. “I’m doing great. I love Seattle. So much more than New York.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Will said.

  “Well, it was good to see you. Have a great show tonight.” And with that, Bunker and I turned around and walked away. This wasn’t the last time I would see Will, but it was the first time I knew we weren’t right together. It was the first time I knew it was best for me to move on.

  LOSING GREG

  FEBRUARY 1997

  Greg asked if we could talk. I knew the conversation about my betrayal was inevitable, but I didn’t know Greg well enough yet to know how it would go. I had been dreading it for weeks, imagining him shaming me, calling me a whore. When Melissa and Chris were gone and Greg invited me to join him in the living room for a talk, I lingered in the kitchen, cursing under my breath.

  He sat on the futon upon which we’d shared our first kiss. I remembered the sweet words he’d said, “Man, I’ve been waiting a long time to do that.” I sat on the edge of the wicker chair across from him. The chair flipped up and wobbled, detached from its base, forcing me to scoot back, sit deeply in the seat, commit to this conversation.

  “I want to talk about what happened,” Greg said, clasping his hands.

  “Yeah,” I said. He was silent and I looked down, studied the floor. “I’m an asshole.”

  “Well, what you did was something an asshole does, yes,” he smirked a bit, and I could sense that enough time had passed, and he wasn’t as hurt as he was confused. He wanted to know if he’d done something wrong, if I didn’t like him the way he thought I did. He looked so vulnerable. Who was this man? Who was I in relation to this sweet, gentle man?

  In the few months we’d lived together, I’d come to understand that deep down, Greg was good. He was thoughtful, brilliant, and funny. He was a child of intellectuals. He was a man with kind and gentle eyes, bluer than any Caribbean shallows, and he sat across from me, terribly sad. I had hurt him deeply, he said, and he told me that when he went home for his Christmas break, he sat in his mom’s house and moped. “Everyone asked me if I was okay, but I just brushed them off.”

  “Did you say anything about me?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. Hadn’t he wanted to tell his mom that he’d tried dating his housemate? That she seemed lovely before she shredded his heart to bits?

  “I just feel like,” I said, uncertain, averting my eyes, “like I need to be single right now.”

  “Really?” he said, his voice sharp, riddled with surprise. “But what about all that stuff we talked about, what we were doing, I mean . . .” his voice trailed off. He swept his hand through his hair and sighed deeply.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I don’t. I’m just really confused. Bunker has me so worried, and the first surgery is next week, and I just can’t focus.”

  He nodded, “Yeah, I’ll bet. Poor Bunk,” he said.

  We were silent a few moments. I didn’t know what I wanted. I had never been faced with this: a man who seemed so good and kind, who was straightforward and not dishonest or jealous. Still, all I wanted was to give every ounce of myself to Bunker. I didn’t want a boyfriend. Yet, a very strong candidate for a good, healthy relationship had presented himself. A truck rumbled up the hill and rattled the one-paned living room windows. We both looked toward the street, then Greg said, “I want us to try to be together. I think we’d be great.”

  In my long history of serial relationships, no one had ever put it so simply, so directly. But I couldn’t hear it. I only thought of Bunker, and of his failing body. Ever since the diagnosis, my nerves had been jangled, my focus terrible. It was no different sitting across from this good man.

  “Did you hear me?” he asked, quietly, pleadingly.

  “Yes,” I said. “But I just can’t.”

  He closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath.

  “I just need to be alone right now. I can’t be in a relationship.”

  The pain in his eyes made me look away. What was I doing? What the hell was I doing? Resolve settled in me. This was the first time I’d tried choosing myself over a relationship, and the feeling was empowering.

  Then he said, quietly, “Well, then I need to move out.” A beat later he said, “I can’t be here in this house with you if we aren’t going to give it a shot. It would just be torture for me. I’m sorry.”

  My family, the new one we had all created, that had cradled and helped me through the beginning of Bunker’s health crisis, was falling apart thanks to my thoughtless actions. I fought off tears, and said, “But I don’t want you to go.” The intensity of feeling behind those words weren’t conveyed in how I said them. I wanted to beg him. Please, please, please. Don’t leave yet.

  “Don’t,” I blurted without thinking. “Don’t move out yet.”

  “But I’m going to have to.”

  “Please don’t,” I said. “Please. Just wait a while. Until after Bunker’s surgery.”

  “It’ll just be too hard to stay,” he said. “I’m sorry.” I pictured him loading his meager belongings into his crappy little car and driving to a sad new studio. No. That just wouldn’t do.

  “Please?” I asked. “Wait a while before you make a decision.”

  He looked at Bunker who was asleep and dreaming on the floor between us. Greg didn’t respond. He just stood up and slowly went up the stairs to his room.

  HE DIES, I DIE

  FEBRUARY 1997

  The sun shone ominously on the morning of Bunker’s surgery. Of course, rain would’ve felt like a bad sign too. I woke up and slid down to the floor next to Bunk. He yawned, the great crevasse of his toothy mouth and blindingly white teeth a reminder that he was an animal, not a magical, mythical cure-all. He stretched his back legs as if they were perfectly healthy. He lay down next to me, his body fully aligned with mine. Then he rolled on his back. I petted his hip, the left one, which would be the first operated on today. The right hip would be opened up in four weeks.

  Today, he was to skip breakfast and arrive at the clinic before eight. At exactly nine o’clock, the hair on his left hip would be shaved off from his spine all the way down to his ankle. The skin would be sliced open in two eight-inch incisions and his pelvic bone would be sawed apart in three places. They would then rotate his bone and secure it with plates and screws so that the hip cradled his femur at the proper angle. He’d just turned eight months old. With this surgery, he had some chance of normal development. Without it: the unspeakable.

&nb
sp; The Bunker Kegger had raised five hundred dollars. I’d saved five hundred from my job, and my parents sent me a check for a thousand dollars. My mom included a piece of paper with a repayment plan, $200 a month for five months. The money was in my account, the checkbook next to my purse.

  I closed my eyes and inhaled the nape of Bunker’s neck, not wanting to exhale and let this day begin. I held my breath in an effort to stop the seconds from peeling on, from the anesthetic taking him out of this world for even a moment, for me not being with him as he shook with fright as the well-meaning veterinary technician took him away from me. I wondered if it would be okay for me to write a note and attach it to his collar: This is not just any dark-red golden. This is no ordinary family dog. This is my lifeline to this world, and though you may not understand or may think I am overstating, please believe that he is the one reason I am still here. Please care for him like he was your own baby, just eight months old, the love of your life, the reason for your life. Please care for him like your life depends on it. If he is okay and well soon, I will be forever and eternally grateful.

  The clock read seven-thirty. I took him out the front door so he could pee in the grass. I sat on the front stoop thinking that this was the last time for a while that my boy would be able to descend the stairs himself. I would have to carry him, all fifty plus pounds of him, up and down the steps for the next several weeks. His tail swirled as he sniffed the weeds in the sidewalk, checking every few minutes to make sure I was still sitting on the stoop, watching him. “Good boy,” I said, smiling. “You’re the best boy.”

  I noticed that the mailbox was full from yesterday. We were all still getting the hang of this adult life, and sometimes we didn’t pick up the mail for days. I stood up and emptied the box; junk mail flapping down to the porch floor, bills and letters entangled in mangled newsprint. I sat down with the mail on my lap and sorted the letters—bills for the house, a letter for Melissa from Ohio, credit card solicitations.