by Jones, Brent
“Did they make the prisoners swim out to jail or something?”
“I think they had invented boats by the time the prison was built,” said Brennan.
Franky scanned the surface of the bay, noting the variety of ships for the first time. “Guess that makes sense.” He reconsidered his question and asked, “But couldn’t the bad guys just swim back to shore?”
Rocco put his phone back in his pocket. “Only if they could swim faster than the sharks.”
The trio kept moving, savoring the scent of small shops specializing in gourmet waffle cones, decadent chocolates, rich ice cream, hot pretzels, and baked goods worthy of a televised competition. Novelty shops featured magic tricks, left-handed gadgets, and humorous socks. They stopped for lunch at one of many seafood restaurants and sat on a patio beneath the golden sunshine.
Franky cut into his pan seared Pacific sole and popped a bite in his mouth. “Can’t get nothin’ fresh like this back home.”
Rocco looked up from his own plate. “Dude, compared to what?”
“Like, the seafood isn’t fresh in Buffalo like it is here.”
“Yeah, but all the seafood I’ve ever seen you eat is frozen fish sticks. You eat fresh fish back home ’bout as often as you drink Starbucks.”
Franky laughed at his own expense before shoveling in another forkful.
Brennan adjusted his sunglasses and fidgeted with a coaster on the table. He watched a busker play acoustic guitar outside the restaurant and noticed a young girl among a small gathering of onlookers. She appeared to be about ten, wore pink shorts, a tank top, and star-shaped sunglasses. Sitting at her feet was a fluffy Pomeranian.
“So what’s next?” asked Rocco. “Head out to Alcatraz for a tour?”
“Go to jail on purpose?” asked Franky. “No thanks.”
“All right. Well, I think I saw some kind of aquarium we could check out.”
“I, uh . . .”
“What is it, Franky?”
“It’s fish.”
“Huh?”
“I’m . . . I don’t like fish.”
Rocco set down his fork, narrowed his eyes, and presented the entire table with a wave of his arm. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Franky grunted and wriggled in his seat. “They’re just so creepy. The way they—” He curled his lips into a tight circle, imitating the way fish move their mouths. “I don’t mind eating ’em, but, ah . . .”
Rocco exhaled with a grin and gave his head a shake. “I learn something new about you every damn day.” He scanned his phone, a list of attractions pulled up on the screen. “How ’bout Union Square? It’s just south of here, I think.”
“What’s that?”
“Pretty sure it’s just a glorified shopping mall. We’re still in America, after all.” Rocco looked up and caught sight of Brennan staring at the busker. “Bee?”
“Huh? Oh, sure, sounds good.”
“Can we ride a streetcar to get there?” asked Franky.
Rocco gestured over his shoulder toward the Embarcadero. “If you can find one, Franky, sure, let’s hop aboard.”
Brennan pushed the food around his plate with his fork, lost in thought. After a moment he looked up and said, “Guys, think we could just skip Union Square? Just thinking, uh, well . . . I’d like to get back and check on Fender.”
“You serious, Bee? We just got here.”
“It’s just, uh . . .” He rubbed his temples without finishing the thought.
“What happened to finding new beginnings in California?”
“We still can, I just wanna make sure he’s doing all right.”
“Why didn’t you just bring ’im along?”
“I should’ve, but I didn’t think about it. Wasn’t sure what we were gonna get up to today.”
“He’s fine.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“He was fine when we left,” said Rocco, giving a dismissive wave of his hand.
Brennan glared at him. “You always have all the fucking answers, don’t you?”
“Bee . . .”
Brennan pounded his fist on the table, spilling water over the top of his glass. “Jesus, Rocco, my dog made lunch out of trash yesterday. Least I can do is go check on him.”
Franky froze, fork halfway to his mouth, and blinked, mouth agape.
“And just so we’re clear,” Brennan continued, “there are no new beginnings without Fender. He’s all I’ve got, and for fuck’s sake, he’s the only thing that’s gonna keep me going once we get home. So if it’s all the same to you, yeah, I wanna check on him, make sure he’s all right.”
Rocco let his cutlery drop to his plate with a dramatic clang. He wiped his mouth. “Sure thing, Bee. Let’s go.”
* * *
After a silent ride back to the hotel, the men entered their room. It took Brennan only an instant to notice that Fender was absent at the door. He rounded the corner in two swift strides, a pungent aroma filling his nose. There he saw Fender on the nearest bed, panting, laying in a puddle of his own foamy vomit.
Fender looked up at Brennan and heaved again, but his stomach was empty, and he spit froths of warm bile on the bedspread. He looked haggard, miserable, worn out. His face was drained of energy, filled with anguish.
At first, Brennan didn’t know what to do, and he stood blocking the path for Rocco and Franky, who were trying to have a look for themselves. Another heave, this one drier than the last. Brennan scooped up Fender, held him close to his chest, ignoring the warm splashes soaking into his clothing.
“Bee?”
“Get the car. Pull up to the side door. I just have to grab a few things.”
Chapter 21
“I’m sorry, Bee.” Rocco sat next to Brennan, tapping his foot, a magazine folded across his lap. The three men were alone in the waiting room, but spoke in hushed whispers. “I didn’t know.”
Brennan said nothing. He walked over to the front desk, cradling Fender under his arm in a blanket from the hotel. “How much longer is it gonna be?” It already felt like he had wasted time. He might have found a veterinarian closer to Vacaville. But the first emergency pet hospital to come up on Google had been in Fairfield, fifteen miles away.
The woman behind the desk looked up. She was in her forties, slow to speak, had plain features, deep wrinkles, curly hair. “I understand your frustration, sir.” She frowned and pointed to a sign. “But pets are seen in order of severity.”
“My dog was poisoned and he can’t stop puking.” Fender shivered in his arms. “What’s more severe than that?”
“With all due respect, Mr. Glover, be thankful he isn’t going in first.”
A door leading to an examination room opened next to the desk. An elderly couple walked out. They took small steps, heads hung low, faces red. The man kept his arm around his wife’s shoulders and held her close as she sobbed into his chest. He held his glasses in his other hand and used his knuckles to wipe his eyes.
Brennan swallowed hard.
“We’ll see Fender just as soon as we can, Mr. Glover. Please have a seat.”
He returned to his friends, slouched in the chair, and watched the elderly couple through the blinds. They got in their car, and as soon as the doors were closed, both broke down in tears. Him, hunched over the steering wheel, convulsing. Her, pulling a wad of tissues from her purse, mouth curled in a howl.
Rocco watched the same couple. “I mean it, Bee. I’m sorry. I know how important Fender is to you.”
“You’ll never know.”
Franky poured himself a cup of water from the cooler and took a seat on the other side of Brennan. He stroked Fender’s face with his beefy fingers. “Might just be a stomach bug.”
“Maybe.” Brennan thought of pulling his phone from his pocket and looking up possible causes and remedies on the internet, but thought better of it. It was a surefire way to heighten his panic.
“We’ve been here damn near forty minutes,” said Rocco, glancing a
t his watch. “For an emergency clinic, seems . . .”
A female technician in scrubs entered the room. She made eye contact with Brennan. “Come on in, Mr. Glover. Let’s have a look at Fender.”
“Want us to come?” asked Franky.
Brennan shook his head before following the technician into a five by seven foot room. He set Fender on a cold metal table. The heaving had ceased, but Fender looked unsteady, semiconscious, his mouth pasty and dry.
“I’m Britney,” the technician said. Her freckled face was damp with sweat. Her lips were dry and chapped, her movements were stiff and rigid.
He stood close to Fender, fidgeting with the hotel blanket. “Is he gonna be okay? What happens now?”
“I’m going to draw a blood sample and get it sent off for testing. I’m also going to collect his weight and have a listen to his vitals. Dr. Schwartz will be in shortly to do a complete physical exam.”
Fender remained still, allowing Britney to complete her tasks. His expression was hollow, vacant, his eyes wet and dark, his body hunched over and weak. She smiled without warmth and said, “Dr. Schwartz will be in shortly.”
Brennan distracted himself with memories of long walks, playing fetch, a thousand hellos and goodbyes, and trading tricks for treat. The image that stood out most in his mind was Fender following Abby into the ocean at Cocoa Beach the year before.
A stout man with thinning gray hair and thick spectacles entered through the rear door. His lab coat was splotched with brown. He approached the table in no particular hurry. “So Fender got into some garbage, did he?”
Brennan nodded, his insides wrought with worry. “Yes, sir, he did.”
“And . . .” Schwartz trailed off, following his index finger across a chart. “That was twenty-four hours ago?”
“Yes, sir. About that.”
Schwartz set the chart down and placed a stethoscope on Fender, moving it across his chest and abdomen. He then prodded the same areas with two fingers, feeling for lumps and abnormalities. “Has his appetite been normal?”
“No, not really. He only eats part of his meals and leaves the rest, or just skips them altogether.”
“Since eating the garbage?”
“Since . . . well, since before that, actually.”
He shone a small flashlight in Fender’s face and peeked inside his ears. “Have his bowel movements been normal?”
“I think so,” said Brennan. “I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.”
“No discoloration? No diarrhea or constipation?”
“I—I’m not sure. I wasn’t really paying attention.”
Schwartz made eye contact with Brennan for the first time. “If he contracted some kind of infection or stomach bug from the garbage, we would have expected to see a reaction in the first six hours or so.”
“But we didn’t.”
“And you’re saying he’s been acting like himself up until today?”
“I—I’d say so, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Are y-you doubting what I’m telling you?”
“Not at all.” Schwartz glanced at Fender, watched him shiver, his head bowed toward the metal surface beneath him. “Just considering the possibilities.”
“What possibilities?”
“We won’t know for sure until we get the blood work back—”
“And when will that be?”
Schwartz, unfamiliar with being interrupted, tensed up and took a deep breath. “Tomorrow,” he said, “but his temperature’s normal and there’s no sign of swelling or distention, no sign of inflammation.”
Brennan wasn’t sure whether to be relieved, terrified, or outraged. He gritted his teeth. “What does that mean?” He could feel the panic rising in his throat.
Schwartz sighed, having hoped to avoid saying more until the results came back. “Your dog is getting old, Mr. Glover.”
Brennan waited in silence, covered in vomit, unsure how to interpret that statement, but certain he wouldn’t like whatever came next.
“The average lifespan of a beagle is somewhere between twelve and fifteen years.”
“But he’s healthy.”
Schwartz fell silent, allowing his lack of response to speak volumes. He reached for the chart again and made a note. “I’m going to prescribe an anti-nauseant for the time being. With any luck, he’ll regain his appetite in the next day or two. But if the vomiting persists, or his condition worsens, come back and see us right away.”
“That’s gonna be hard,” said Brennan. “We’re visiting from Buffalo and leaving town soon.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow, most likely.”
“Flying back?”
“No, sir, we’re driving.”
“Long drive.” Schwartz gave his head a subtle shake. “Well, call us from the road if you need to. If you can keep him hydrated, he should survive the trip back.”
“Survive?” Brennan almost choked on the word as he said it.
“Hydration is the most important thing right now. We’ll give him an injection of hydration before he leaves today, but it’ll be up to you to keep him drinking water on the way back, even if you have to syringe it in his mouth.”
“Yeah, but then what? How do we treat . . . whatever’s wrong with him once we’re home?”
“That’s just it, Mr. Glover. I don’t think he contracted anything from the garbage. A stomach bug doesn’t usually show symptoms a day later.” He paused. “Are you sure he’s been his usual self lately? Energetic? Playful?”
Brennan thought for a moment. He stared at the wall, bit his lip. “Well, to be honest, he was involved in a car accident before we left . . .”
“He was hit by a car?”
“No, he was . . . inside the car. He was put on pain meds right after. He got a bit banged up and he was kinda lethargic, but I just assumed that was—”
“Any weight loss?”
“Yeah, a bit, but he wasn’t eating right after the—”
“Has he been especially thirsty lately? Drinking more water than usual? Peeing more often?”
“Yeah, I mean, I just figured the weather’s warmer out here, and—”
Schwartz inched toward the door, itching to make his escape. “My best guess?”
Brennan held his breath.
“We won’t know for sure until the blood work comes back, but we may be looking at renal failure.”
Brennan understood what the words meant, but not how they applied to Fender. He shut his eyes and pulled Fender close.
“He’s a senior dog now, Mr. Glover. Twelve years old, right?”
“About that.”
“Well, I hate to ruin your vacation, but it might be time to start thinking about quality of life.” Schwartz stared down at the floor as he said it. “I’m sorry, but he may not have long left.” He opened the door and looked back for a second, adding, “Might be time to let Fender say goodbye to his loved ones.”
The door closed, leaving Brennan alone with his dog. “He already did.”
Chapter 22
Brennan kept careful watch over Fender in the back seat. He was wrapped in a sheet permanently borrowed from the hotel. The veterinarian in Fairfield had confirmed it that morning—Fender’s kidneys were failing, and it was only a matter of time until they would give out completely.
The idea of having to choose to let go of Fender horrified Brennan. Death by kidney failure would be excruciating, and Brennan knew—as difficult as the decision would be—he couldn’t allow it to come to that. He stroked Fender and kissed the top of his head, fighting back tears.
“How’s he doing back there?”
Thinking back to what Schwartz had said, he replied, “Surviving.” He stared out the window as the Lexus crossed the state line into Nevada. “I don’t get it. Fender survived the crash just to, what? Die a few weeks later? It makes no sense.”
Rocco glanced in the rearview, eyes narrowed. “Think we should head straight home?” He spoke in a gentle and reassuring
tone.
Franky turned off the radio, adding, “We’d understand, Brennan.”
The signs had all been there—fatigue, lethargy, rampant thirst, rapid weight loss—and Brennan cursed himself for missing that something was wrong. “It’s all so goddamn obvious now.” He slouched in his seat, sighed. “And there’s nothing waiting for us back in Williamsville.”
Rocco studied Brennan in the rearview and said nothing.
“I mean, we head straight home, and then what? Sit? Wait? Watch television ’til death knocks at our door?” He shook his head. “No, we’re not going out like that. Fender deserves better than sitting around and waiting to die.”
“Did the vet mention, you know, how long he’s—”
“There’s no way of knowing for sure.” Brennan wondered at that moment if Fender understood what was happening. He continued, “And when the time comes, I’ll make the call. But—” Fender wagged his tail as Brennan spoke, “—he’d want us to go on acting as normal as possible. I mean, would you want the world to stop turning if you were sick?”
“S’pose not.”
The anti-nauseant appeared to be doing its job. Fender had managed to get some water down that morning and take another dose. It had been a taxing affair. With an upset stomach, ingesting much of anything seemed unappealing, and Brennan had cried as he syringed the liquid down Fender’s throat.
Brennan thought for a moment. “Let’s make the most of the time he has left. For his sake and ours. He’s still got some good days left, I’m sure, and . . .” He wasn’t certain if anything else needed to be said.
Just off I-80, only a few blocks from downtown Reno, the men arrived at a Days Inn. As the trio walked toward their ground floor room, they passed a withered woman in a hoodie, toothless, muttering to herself, rocking in place with her arms folded across her chest. A couple screamed and cursed at each other through an open window on the second floor. And when they found the door to their room at last, a car was parked in front of it. A black plastic bag was taped over one of its rear windows and one of its tires was completely flat.
Las Vegas, especially in movies and on television, was made to look extravagant, classy, and luxurious. And although Brennan had never been in person, he had somehow assumed Reno would be the same. But if the rest of Reno were anything like this motel, he decided it would be dumpy, unkempt, and rather depressing.
