Dog Gone, Back Soon

by Nick Trout

  “Smart kid, but obviously not smart enough,” says Lewis. “Mom wouldn’t stop going on about his addiction to computers. Let’s hope that’s the least of her worries. Now, to more pressing issues. You all set with your license to practice?”

  “Yes, sir.” If the “sir” sounds too formal, blame my time in the south. For the last three days, I was back in Charleston making sure I’m not going to get arrested for impersonating a veterinarian.

  “Excellent. You get back in time?”

  He’s referring to my much awaited but postponed first date with Amy, one of the waitresses from the Miss Eden Falls diner in the center of town. Not much gets past Lewis. The phrase an elephant never forgets refers to the way these pachyderms pass on a genetic memory of directions and locality, including their loved ones’ final resting place. Lewis may lack total recall, but he’s clearly watching my every move.

  “Yep,” I say curtly, hoping he’ll back off.

  “How did it go?”

  No such luck.

  “Not well.”

  Lewis folds his arms across his chest, eases back in his stance, obviously awaiting details.

  “Look, I’m out of practice at this dating game. Amy got this phone call that she simply had to take, so I’m twiddling my thumbs for a full twelve minutes and then she’s all cagey about who it was and—”

  “Well, knowing Amy it must have been important. She apologized for taking the call?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But she wouldn’t tell you who she was talking to?”

  “She wouldn’t answer any of my questions.”

  Lewis leans forward. “Questions, plural? Not a good idea.”

  “That’s what I said. ‘Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.’ And Amy said, ‘Tonight or coming home to Eden Falls?’ That was just before she stormed off.”

  “Let me guess, you replied, ‘Both’?”

  I hang my head in shame and then feel my left bicep squeezed by his trademark lobster claw grip and meet the slate gray eyes of this little old man.

  “Take it from someone who’s been married for fifty years,” says Lewis, “women are not attracted to insecure, pushy men.”

  As if to emphasize his point, my right bicep gets the vise grip as well.

  “Call her. Apologize.” He waits a beat before adding, “Besides, isn’t all this about second chances?”

  How does Lewis do it, the way he manages to angle his head up, unblinking, to peek inside you?

  “I saw what happened to you last week,” he says. “Coming home, taking this place on. Something hibernating in your life woke up, right?”

  I say nothing. Blame guilt or a craving for redemption, but I walked away from my old life as a respected pathologist (okay, there was the matter of a suspended license and huge legal bills) and committed to saving the late Bobby Cobb’s floundering, debt-ridden practice. For fifteen years, after the death of my mother, I willfully never saw or spoke to my father again. Last week, Bedside Manor taught me what a fool I’d been. It’s his legacy, all that’s left of him, and I woke up because I caught a glimpse of something worth fighting for.

  One last double-barreled squeeze and Lewis turns his attention to taking another rectal temperature on Tallulah. Our patient barely notices.

  “Ninety-nine. Much better. Nice to upstage Healthy Paws,” he says. “It’s not often we get new clients from over in Patton.”

  Patton lies across the valley, and with a population five times the size of Eden Falls, it can sustain a mall, movie theater, and chain restaurants, making it a metropolis compared to our little town.

  “Amy and I were out that way,” I say. “The Yardarm. She saw them, the vets from Healthy Paws. Out celebrating I guess. The bar was packed and I couldn’t make them out, except some guy with an annoying, distinctive laugh.”

  Lewis offers a sage nod. “Let me guess, braying donkey meets croupy pig?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “He’s their office manager. And that laugh may be his most charming feature. According to Doris, he’s declared war on Bedside Manor.”

  Doris is the Bedside Manor’s only other employee—a chain-smoking, beehive-wearing, geriatric receptionist who makes it her business to know everything about everybody. I am not surprised to hear her gossip network extends out to Patton.

  “Come on. War?”

  “This is serious, Cyrus. Round these parts Doris provides better intelligence than a CIA drone. Healthy Paws was convinced you’d either default or sell the practice to them. Apparently our little trick with the free clinic last weekend has set them on edge.”

  Before I left for Charleston, we opened up the practice to the public, trying to attract new business with the promise of a free examination for their pets. To be honest, the accompanying free booze and munchies were probably the bigger attractions. Somehow we clawed back enough bad debt to temporarily stave off closure by the odious Mr. Critchley of Green State Bank.

  “Look at this place. Sometimes I wonder if my father used the word manor instead of clinic or hospital to avoid false advertising. We’re not in the same league.”

  Lewis steps into my personal space again, and I try not to flinch. “Sure, we lack their bells and whistles. But they’re still worried about the competition.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Not at all. Think about it, Healthy Paws is a national chain. Doris’s source swears their doctors are jealous of the way we get to practice veterinary medicine. And I mean the scary type of jealous.”

  A scary type of jealous? Is that how I acted when Amy insisted she had to take her phone call ten minutes into our date, going all wide-eyed and animated on me, feigning her apology as she giggled with the caller on the other end of the line?

  I come back with a dubious nasal huff.

  “I’m not kidding,” says Lewis. “Healthy Paws eats up struggling practices for breakfast. Their unofficial catchphrase is ‘If we can’t have you, nobody else can.’ ”

  What have I done? Gone for three days and now I’ve got a rival for Amy’s affection as well as a rival for our business. As it is I’m hopelessly romantically challenged and Bedside Manor’s already received last rites.

  I take a deep breath, mustering renewed resolve. “Well, like you said, Lewis, this is about second chances. Yes, I’m out of my league, comfort zone, and probably, my mind, but if you’re willing to fight then so am I. I mean how bad can this be? Surely a little competition will do us good?”

  Lewis looks up at me with his piercing eyes, his tightening crow’s feet adding to my unease. “Listen to me. This makes handling the bank look easy. Pay up and at least the bank leaves you alone. This is different. This is about professional reputation. This is about quality of service. Healthy Paws employees play dirty, and they’d love to expose our flaws and our antiquated ways. They’ll try to highlight every weakness because for Healthy Paws this is personal. This is about humiliation. I wish it was just about competition, but I’m telling you, they don’t want to compete. They want to wipe us out. They want to bring Bedside Manor to its knees.”

  Wednesday

  2

  LIVING IN THE APARTMENT OVER THE PRACTICE, my childhood home, feels like a blessing and a curse. Great commute in the morning but no possibility of truly escaping from work. Given this new development, maybe that’s not a bad thing. If the rival practice thinks Bedside Manor is going to roll over and pee like a submissive dog, it’s very much mistaken. And that’s why I jog down the flight of stairs and step into the waiting room like the president stepping off Air Force One, a distinct pep to my stride.

  It’s my first morning of appointments since getting back to Eden Falls, and what’s this? A Christmas miracle—the waiting room is full.

  “Good morning, Doris. Don’t suppose there are any urgent messages for me?”

  From behind the reception desk, the mocking arch of her penciled-in eyebrows is all the answer I need. Damn. Still nothing from Amy.

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nbsp; “A word in your ear, Dr. Mills,” says Doris, the summons enforced by a nicotine-stained index finger insisting I come closer.

  “Looks like a full house,” I say under my breath, trying to contain my delight. “Guess the word must be out.”

  Doris eases back her chin and narrows her eyes as though she can’t decide whether to pity me or stamp on me. For the record, Doris’s loyalty still lies with my father, the late Doc Cobb, and she harbors a grudge for the son who was never there for him. I’m not sure I’ll ever be forgiven (or if I deserve to be), but I sense there are moments, however brief, when she almost approves of what I’m trying to do to save this place. This might not be one of them.

  “You seen this crew?” Doris asks. “Take a closer look.”

  Her eyebrows jump with a “well, go on then” ferocity, and I do as I’m told. It seems everyone on two legs, four legs, and no legs—a yellow python drapes over the shoulders of a teenage boy with what looks like brass knuckles tattooed into his neck—is staring at me, and to some extent, I see what she means. Dog collars and leashes have been replaced by lengths of frayed rope; cats are restrained not by carriers but by nylon shopping bags or ratty, partially unzipped ski jackets.

  “Could have told you that free clinic last Saturday was a bad idea,” says Doris. “All it did was bring back the low-rent pet owners we’ve already sent to collections. You won’t get a dime out of this lot.”

  An imaginary itch at the back of my neck gets the better of me. I hate public speaking, but I think this is the time to air an unpleasant truth.

  I turn to address a blank but attentive crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, um… thank you all for coming in this morning, but I need to draw your attention to this particular notice.”

  I point to my handwritten poster pinned to the wall.

  PAYMENT IN FULL IS EXPECTED FOR SERVICES RENDERED.

  “Hate to be so, um… so direct, but this is not a free animal clinic.”

  The room swells with moans and curses. I even catch a “told you” as pets perk up and people stand before shuffling out through the chiming front door as though they clearly came to the wrong place. In seconds, what was a packed waiting room has been pared down to just two people and two dogs. There’s a straight-backed, stern-looking woman with an excitable, even squirrelly boxer by her side and a middle-aged man with a poodle. The man locks eyes with me, mulling me over. His face is beyond gaunt, his skin more translucent than ashen. The collar of his shirt gapes widely, accentuating the size of his head on a pipe-cleaner neck. And there’s his black, almost woolly dog, aside from a few tan-colored whiskers around his snout. This scruffy specimen must be the biggest version of the poodle breed, the standard (as opposed to toy or miniature). He wears no leash, standing perfectly still, staring straight up at his master, oblivious to his surroundings as if bracing for a command.

  “Here’s the file for your first case,” says Doris, handing over a wafer-thin folder.

  I open it and notice there’s no previous history—a new client with an address in the neighboring town of Patton. Interesting.

  “Ms. Sauer and… Sox,” I announce, noticing how all four paws of the tap-dancing fawn boxer are a brilliant white. “If you’ll please follow me.”

  I lead the way to my examination room. The standard poodle never flinches, never blinks, so intent is his devotion to the sickly-looking man.

  “I’m here ’cause I can’t stand that other vet practice, Healthy Paws,” says Ms. Sauer, “especially that… well, I won’t say the word… but that… that Dr. Honey.”

  Ms. Sauer almost dry heaves as she says the name. She’s a short woman with pinched features, twitching predatory eyes, and barely any lips on which to hang a pale pink halo of lipstick. Though her voice is shrill, her words are music to my ears. In my past life as a veterinary pathologist, I managed to avoid any and all banal banter with the pet-owning public. Now that I’m a real veterinarian, Lewis insists I be warm, straightforward, and engaging. What he’s really saying is stop being so cold, unnecessarily scientific, and downright hostile. Well, when it comes to Ms. Sauer, I’m all in, for here’s a woman not only stroking my ego by asking for a second opinion, but bent on despising my professional rivals. I can hardly wait to hear more about this reprobate Dr. Honey.

  “Here are his records.” Ms. Sauer hands over a thick file of photocopied notes. “Sox is only a year old, and aside from vaccines and worming and what have you, these are pretty much all about his lump.”

  I look over at Sox. There’s a lot of snuffling and throaty gargling going on as he snorts and sniffs his way around the room like he’s rooting for truffles. That’s when I notice his most conspicuous feature—his tail. He actually has one—not a nubbin, not a docked stump—a full-fledged wagging tail.

  “Nice to see a boxer with a tail,” I say, taking her notes.

  “We got her from Nova Scotia. They don’t allow docking.”

  I’m barely listening because I’m transfixed by the medical records, financial statements, and, of all things, a wad of coupons. The workup for what has been described as a red, raised, one-by one-centimeter hairless skin lump over Sox’s right shoulder is both exhaustive and, from what I can tell, extremely costly. Ms. Sauer’s MasterCard has been soaking up some serious dollars, and some of these tests appear to be, well, questionable, if not unnecessary. Why did Sox need his urine analyzed? What did a test for Lyme disease have to do with a skin problem? For now I’ll try to give Dr. Honey the benefit of the doubt—and assume she was just being thorough, not gratuitous.

  The glossy flyers find me less charitable. There’s an offer for fifty dollars off all ultrasounds and X-rays, and one for free grooming or a soothing doggy massage if you get your dog spayed and vaccinated at Healthy Paws. Soothing doggy massage? When did choices in animal healthcare start to feel like shopping for deals on groceries? Apparently, a lot has changed since I graduated from veterinary school.

  “So this mysterious lump, how long has it been around?”

  “About a month,” says Ms. Sauer. “She did all these tests, like the computer told her to, and we’re still no further along.”

  “She being Dr. Honey?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she… she… um, uses a computer to communicate?”

  “No, course not,” she snaps. “The place is paperless, computerized. Dr. Honey types into her laptop thingy and up pops a list of the tests and procedures needed to diagnose and cure the problem. Pretty fancy, only it didn’t work so good with Sox.”

  I lean back and purse my lips, totally perplexed. “Let me get this straight. Healthy Paws has a computer program that tells its doctors what to do?” I stop short of saying, “And how to think?”

  “Exactly,” affirms a wide-eyed Ms. Sauer, as Sox grumbles over what appears to be a toenail clipping under a counter, thankfully just out of reach of his ropey pink tongue. “Oh, they’ll tell you it ensures ‘optimal patient care.’ ” Out come the air quotation marks. “But I’m thinking it’s just a fancy way of getting every penny out of you that they possibly can.”

  My eyes drift to the corkboard hanging on the green wall behind her. It’s home to a collage of family photos, but it’s the picture at its heart that has my focus. It’s one of me as a boy sitting on my mother’s lap, my father, Robert, smiling, his eyes half-closed, by our side. It’s the only tangible memory I have of the three of us together as a family, and I wonder what the man who left me this ailing practice would have made of this brave new world of veterinary medicine. Bobby Cobb was your classic, old-school animal doctor, cut from the same cloth as Lewis. He lived to fix sick animals. Ask the right questions, get your hands on the animal, trust your five senses, use your brain, your experience, your gut instinct, and don’t cut corners. Making money was never part of the formula. Connecting with the patient and the owner was all that mattered. No wonder Cobb was revered as a local deity while his business was going belly-up. How do I find a happy medium?

  �
��Um, so how long ago did you notice the lump?” I ask, shaking out of my reverie, attempting to channel my late father.

  Ms. Sauer stiffens. “You already asked that. Like I said, ’bout a month.”

  “Right. Got it. Getting bigger, smaller?”

  Ms. Sauer shrugs. “Staying about the same.”

  Come on, Cyrus, keep going. Maybe the Healthy Paws computer program isn’t such a bad idea, especially if it gives you ideas for what to say next.

  “Does it bother him? Does he try to scratch it, rub it, lick it?”

  “No, he couldn’t care less.”

  What else? What else? And then, with haste, as though time is running out, “Oh yeah, and this lump, is it the only one he’s got?”

  My excitement at mustering a pertinent question only makes Ms. Sauer regard me with even more suspicion. Or is that regret?

  “So far as I can tell,” she says, becoming impatient. “Look, Doc Honey stuck a needle into it and had it sent off to be reviewed by some fancy pathologist. Even they couldn’t tell me what it was.”

  I could let her know that every so often a sample will simply not yield an answer despite your best efforts, but instead I shake my head, purse my lips, and join her in a moment of eye-rolling astonishment and disgust.

  “Now Doc Honey wants to put poor Sox under the knife and lop it off, even though she and her damned computer can’t tell me what it is. She says it could be a bug bite, it could be cancer, but surgery is the only way to know for sure.”

  Hmm, boxers are the number one breed of dog for skin tumors, by far.

  “What was that?”

  “Oh, nothing, just thinking how skin cancer may be common in boxers but unusual in such a young dog.” Though not impossible, I keep to myself. “Okay, let’s take a look.”

  Sox leans into me, happy to deposit a dollop of stringy drool near the crotch of my chinos as I check out the strawberry-colored bald bump on the point of his shoulder. My fingers pinch and squeeze his mysterious lesion while my brain churns with the possibilities. Presumably the Healthy Paws computer wanted to test for Lyme disease in case the bump was caused by a tick bite. But what about a brown recluse spider bite? What about a cyst or an in-growing hair follicle? What if the program has a glitch or the computer goes rogue?