Dog Gone, Back Soon

by Nick Trout

  “Stash, pucker up.”

  No dice.

  “Stash, kiss.”

  The world goes black as sixty pounds of dog leap onto my chest and begin coating every exposed surface of my skin with a shellac of saliva from a serpentine tongue.

  “Stash, sit, Stash, sit.”

  It’s as if the feeding frenzy never happened, Stash calm and distant, me dripping drool and panting.

  “Good boy,” I say, pulling myself together, scraping saliva from my cheek, and rubbing it into both my hands like Purell. “Okay, let’s go see who’s home.”

  With a truck lacking a reverse gear, you’ve got to love a circular driveway. I park, order Stash to stay, stuff a sticky right hand into the bag-o’-fur in my pocket, and head for the front door. It’s open before I can find the bell.

  “Can I help you?”

  This has to be Lionel—turtleneck sweater, thinning black hair swept back and slick, brown corduroy pants, and plaid slippers. Very cozy. Where’s the smoking jacket and the pipe?

  Squeezing some fur into my gluey palm, I extend my right hand and rush forward.

  “Dr. Cyrus Mills,” I say, giving him little choice but to shake, clasping my left hand on top, preventing the quick getaway. “I was in the neighborhood and hoped I might have a word with either yourself or Trisha. Lionel, right?”

  “Right,” says Lionel, his welcome smile more like a wince of revulsion as he tries to wipe off his hands without me noticing and him seeming impolite. “Is this about my mother-in-law’s dead dog?”

  “It is.”

  He seems quite happy for me to state my business while shivering on his stoop. “Perhaps I could come in?”

  Lionel still seems unsure, as though he might want to see some sort of veterinary ID or guide me through some radioactive decontamination chamber. In the end he beckons me into a stark mudroom.

  “Appreciate you removing your shoes. There’s a selection of guest slippers on the shelf behind the coat rack. What are you, size eleven?”

  “Ten and a half,” I say, stumbling sideways, one boot dangling off my ankle, grabbing his left wrist as I pretend to fall, imparting another snail trail. I make my apologies for being klutzy and find a suitable blue suede pair. Snazzy.

  “Do you need to wash your hands?”

  I shake my head and offer a manic smile as I wipe my hands down the front of my overcoat. What’s gotten into me? Lionel’s discomfort is almost invigorating as I follow him into a living room that looks totally unlived in. Two enormous white leather couches face one another, separated by a bare glass coffee table sitting atop a plush black-and-white-striped rug. Three of the walls are an oppressive flat slate gray, void of pictures or photographs, but the entire fourth wall is not a wall. It’s a window of sorts, no frame, no curtains, just a single massive pane of glass offering a spectacular wintry view of forests and mountains to the north. It’s like staring at a humongous Vermont postcard.

  “Nice room,” I say, plopping down into the couch, rocking all the way back, wiping my hands back and forth to appreciate the quality of the leather and to spread my allergenic payload.

  Lionel is visibly uncomfortable. He sits down on the couch opposite.

  “Sorry, Patricia is out. I happen to work from home.”

  I think I’m meant to notice his wife’s proper moniker.

  “That’s nice. What’s your line of work?”

  “Marketing. But I’m, well, between jobs for right now. There was something you wanted to discuss?”

  I give him the knowing nod, the one that says, “Don’t you mean laid off and currently unemployed?”

  “Yes, that’s right, Crispin. Sorry, but there’s something on your face.”

  I make a motion toward my own right eye, to better direct him toward this imaginary fuzz. Let’s see if those allergies to dogs are real.

  Lionel’s right index finger works the corner of his right eye, depositing a sample dangerously close to the sensitive mucous membranes of his conjunctiva. This is too easy. It’s totally unprofessional and possibly murderous (though what would the police charge me with—assault with a deadly hair? I doubt it) but this thing with Amy is making me bold, if not reckless.

  “It’s gone, it’s gone. Must have been a piece of fluff. Yes, I wanted to discuss Crispin, your mother-in-law’s stuffed Labrador.”

  Lionel composes himself, passes a saluting hand through his cultivated but failing crop of hair, and once more tries to sit. I note no hives on his hands or wrists, and he’s not scratching.

  “What about it?”

  “Well, by mending the broken tail I’m worried I’m only achieving a temporary fix.”

  “Temporary. You think it will break again?”

  “I mean it feels like we’re not addressing the bigger problem. I know I’m just the veterinarian, my involvement is peripheral at best, but it seems obvious that Mrs. Peebles requires assistance in her daily life. A stuffed dog may offer low-maintenance companionship, but what she really needs is physical, if not professional, help.”

  “Mavis won’t be parted from that dog. We’ve tried. This house has a separate apartment out back, less contemporary but nice all the same. It’s hers if she wants it, but sadly, that dog and I can’t be in the same house together, let alone the same room.”

  Lionel pauses for dramatic effect, and I can tell this is a well-rehearsed vignette. “Deathly allergic to canine dander. I have to carry an EpiPen every time I go out.” He sighs, resigned to his sad lot in life.

  “Wow, a sensitivity capable of inducing anaphylactic shock. Scary.” No puffiness, not a welt, swelling, or hint of a wheeze. I note the corner of his right eye—normal blink, no edema, and no excessive tearing.

  “Then, between you and me, maybe it would be best if I tell Mrs. Peebles I can’t fix Crispin’s tail. Tell her it’s time to say goodbye, once and for all.”

  “No, no, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “But then she could live here. Without an allergy-inducing dog.”

  “Yes, but think of the emotional upheaval. My mother-in-law is a fragile and sensitive soul. She’s very attached to Crispin, and that kind of shock might be dangerous to her health.”

  “I see. I just thought that… well… given her physical limitations, this might be as good a time as any to cut the cord. Perhaps she could discover the benefits of a nursing home?”

  This time Lionel pretends to ponder the suggestion.

  “I’m led to believe they can be pricey,” he says, straining to sound cursory, as though he hasn’t researched it down to the last penny.

  “Extremely. Though my colleague, Doc Lewis, prefers to call it financially crippling. Sold his veterinary practice so his ailing wife could be cared for in a decent facility. All gone. Seventy-three years old and he’s having to work for me.”

  I’ll take the recoil of his head on his shoulders as a sign of genuine surprise or concern.

  “But what do I know? Ms. Peebles’s finances are none of my business.”

  “Right,” says Lionel, though I seem to have lost a part of him, no doubt the “what’s going to become of my wife’s inheritance” part. “Well”—he gets to his feet—“thanks for keeping me in the loop. I’ll be sure to discuss this with Patricia, but for now, anything you can do to keep old Crispin limping along will be much appreciated.”

  He tops off his cloying smile by folding his arms across his chest, fingers tight and immovable under his pits, as though he’s pretending to be cold to avoid further contact.

  We exchange our goodbyes, and I traipse back to the Silverado. Though Lionel has stopped short of tattooing DNR on his mother-in-law’s forehead and warning every eager paramedic “you save her life, you take her home,” his sentiment feels pretty much the same. Mavis’s bunny slippers are not welcome in his sterile lair. I may not know how much he needs her savings, but I do know this—Lionel is definitely not allergic to dogs.

  14

  GILLIGAN’S ABDOMI
NAL X-RAYS ARE HANGING ON A white light-viewing box in the work area; Lewis is sizing them up as if he’s trying to appreciate a piece of modern art that could have been painted by a kindergartener.

  “You just missed them,” he says. “I told Mary you’d give her a call once you looked at the films. This your new sidekick?”

  I introduce Stash, who sits politely by my side, accepting a pat but otherwise remaining passive. He’s like one of the Queen’s Guard at Buckingham Palace, stoic and unwavering when on duty.

  “He’s staying with me till Devito figures out who he belongs to.”

  Lewis considers Stash, steps over to a nearby cabinet, brushes aside a half-empty box of bandage material, and pulls out what appears to be an old Polaroid camera.

  “What you doin’?” I ask.

  “Just a minute,” says Lewis, framing Stash while the dog keeps his eyes on me. There’s a click, a flash of light, and the buzz of fresh film emerging shiny and wet from the camera’s base. Lewis grabs the undeveloped image by its matte-white border and begins wafting it back and forth like a fan.

  “Put him up on the Wall of Fame. See if anyone recognizes him. If not, someone might want to adopt him. Here you go.”

  He hands over the Polaroid. Somehow Stash manages to look uncomfortable, awkward, like it’s a photo for a mug shot or a school yearbook.

  I put it in the breast pocket of my shirt but feel the need to come clean.

  “To be honest, I was thinking about keeping him myself. I know he’s a ragamuffin, what with the dreads and the weird clip job around his face. But there’s something… pathetic… about him. The way he’s always… I don’t know… on. It’s as if he can’t relax.”

  “Huh,” says Lewis. “Who does that sound like?”

  “I’m serious. He’s very smart and responsive to verbal commands. I’ve tried ‘at ease’ and ‘re-lax,’ but nothing works.”

  “I heard you met with his owner.”

  I finally tell Lewis about the gaunt man’s sad request for help. “When I asked what was going to happen to Stash, he said it was up to me. I’ve no idea what that meant, but this feels like the right thing to do.”

  Lewis seems to brighten whenever I start getting sentimental. I take it as a cue to clear my throat and get back on task.

  “Thanks for taking these.” I nod at the black-and-white images of Gilligan on the viewing box.

  “No problem, but I’m not sure I’ve been much help.”

  The three of us gang up on the X-rays. We’re looking at a side shot and a front-on view of a canine belly with all its shades of gray.

  “Maybe some more contrast will help,” I think out loud. “You want to turn off the overhead lights?”

  “Do what?” says Lewis.

  “The lights,” I say, pointing to the switch, just out of Lewis’s reach.

  Whether it was the gesture, the phrase, the insistence in my voice, or Lewis’s hesitation, Stash trots over to the wall, stands up on his back legs, and with a practiced downward jerk of his snout, we are plunged into darkness.

  Though my eyes are adjusting, our silhouettes turn to one another, sharing a tacit moment of appreciation for a talented animal before we turn back to the films.

  It’s a bizarre pattern of white commas, curlicues, and cedillas littering the film from the collie’s stomach all the way through to his colon.

  “Dimming the lights doesn’t make it any less weird,” says Lewis. “I’ve certainly never seen anything like it before.”

  I catch Stash turning back and forth between us, following our words like they’re a verbal tennis match and he’s the ball boy, poised and eager to help out.

  “Let’s back up. This… stuff… whatever it is, has to be inside Gillie’s guts. And if it’s white on an X-ray, it has to be dense enough to impede radiation.”

  “It could be bone. Chewed up, cracked, and splintered bone.”

  “Could be, and that might explain why he’s losing weight and off his food, but how do you tie in the trembling and the seizures?”

  “That’s why they came to you, my boy. And now you’ve got carte blanche to find out.”

  I’m confused.

  “Amy dropped by to see you,” says Lewis. “She saw me working on Gillie and insisted I bill her, not Mary.”

  “She can’t afford to do that.”

  “That’s what I thought, but I used a little more tact. She promises Mary will pay her back, but she knows money’s tight right now and, more importantly, she knows how much the dog means to her. I’m telling you, that girl’s a keeper.”

  I let my head rock all the way back, eyes reaching upward for heavenly inspiration.

  “Do I want to know?” asks Lewis.

  “Probably not. See there’s this other guy in the picture and—”

  “Stop right there.” Lewis’s hand parachutes down and settles on my shoulder. “You know the most important thing I’ve learned in fifty years of marriage: honesty—with each other, but also with yourself. So, answer the question—why do you like this girl so much?”

  Lewis gives me “the stare.” I’ve seen it before. It’s like being injected with truth serum, the way its kind intent makes you want to find the right answer.

  “Okay. I’ve spent the better part of my adult years avoiding emotional risk, making sure I wasn’t vulnerable to—”

  “Heartache?”

  “… the allure of a beguiling woman. Look, Amy’s unpredictable, pigheaded, and dangerously outspoken. But no other woman has ever made me feel that way.”

  “Then make sure she knows exactly that. If she prefers someone else, she’s not the girl for you.”

  When Lewis shifts into paternal mode, I’m always gripped by trepidation, but here’s the thing, these conversations always leave me with a certain calm.

  Lewis beams. Lesson delivered, he shouts, “Stash, lights.”

  I don’t know who’s the quicker study, the labradoodle or Lewis.

  “That really is a neat trick. But to more serious matters. Where are you with Garvey’s cow, Ermintrude?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “And?”

  “It could be bad. Real bad. But I’m still not a hundred percent certain.”

  “Then make sure you are and, no disrespect, I hope you’re wrong. What are we going to do about tomorrow’s lecture at the Knights of Columbus? Best if we go together. Form a united front.”

  The thought of having to defend Bedside Manor’s antiquated ways to a room full of strangers while I’m getting the third degree from Dorkin fills me with dread. Give me a root canal or a colonoscopy any day. And let’s not forget the guest speaker, Dr. Winn Honey, eager to broadcast how her professional rival hides behind a porn star pseudonym so he can exploit lonely women through online dating.

  “You really think I need to be there? I mean, you’re the one who packs the waiting room. Eden Falls will be there to see you, not me.”

  Lewis eases back in his stance, begins to worry his lower lip with that chipped upper incisor.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Plenty, I think, feeling myself being seduced by the coward’s way out. I could bail on this evening’s date with Dr. Honey, drop her an apologetic email and claim I tried but never really felt a vital connection. Which is true. Then, if Lewis flies solo at the K of C, Winn is none the wiser and I get to focus on sorting things out with Amy.

  Lewis steps around Stash, the statuesque lion by my side, drifting into my personal space.

  “If you’re worried about this turning into some sort of confrontation, don’t. We’re starting to build something special here at Bedside Manor, something authentic. We’re not going there to defend—we’re going there to flaunt.”

  His hands reach out to squeeze my triceps while his eyes reach out to squeeze my conscience. What’s with the sorcery of a wise old man?

  “You’re absolutely right. I’ll be there.” Though I may have a black eye, a red handprint
embossed on my cheek, and an ice pack held to my loins by the time I arrive. “What d’you think we should do with the stuff Gabe filched?”

  Lewis gives me his best Cheshire cat impression.

  “You’re not to worry. Think of it as our weapon of last resort.”

  “Now you sound like Truman.”

  “Trust me,” says Lewis. “I have a cunning plan.”

  “I mean, the kid hacked into their computer system. That’s a felony.”

  Lewis releases his grip, the letting go almost as dramatic as the latching on. “Which part of ‘trust me’ don’t you understand?”

  I smile and excuse myself to call Mary at home, mumbling my way through an unhelpful description of Gilligan’s bizarre X-rays, suggesting I drop by to take another look at him in his home environment. I follow up with a call to one of the few people in my phone’s contact list.

  “Hey, Doc, what up? All excited for your hot date?”

  It’s Charlie Brown, and I thought, given this time of day, that she’d be in class and I’d leave a message.

  “Don’t tell me, another gym class.”

  “You got it. If you’re calling for advice, ditch the cologne—it makes her sneeze. And don’t laugh when she says she loves Rod Stewart or that her favorite movie is Pretty Woman, and don’t ask to see her photo albums.”

  “Actually I was hoping you could gauge her mood for me.”

  “Hmm… okay… different. Definitely different.”

  “That’s not helpful.”

  “But she is. Sure she’s nervous and excited and stressing over every last detail, but there’s something… different.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, like she had me check out what she planned to wear, and she puts on this short skirt ’cause she’s got, like, great legs, and I tell her it looks too slutty. Instead of reaming me out, she actually listens to me and goes with nice pants. It’s like she wants to do this right. It’s cute.”

  This revelation is bad enough, but then Charlie finishes me off with: “I’m really glad. Different for my mom is a good thing.”

  Perfect, another dilemma to further complicate my love life.