by Laurie Hess
Within a week of losing Charlie to old age, Rose had called me to say that she needed a new bird and would I please help her find one. I understood that she was devastated and wanted to fill the emptiness that Charlie had left behind, but I advised against getting a new pet so soon and suggested that she wait.
“It’s important that you allow yourself the time to grieve and understand that Charlie cannot ever be replaced, even if you get another bird.”
I haven’t met a pet owner who didn’t suffer great sadness when a cherished companion became sick or died. And at the time of their loss, many owners swear to me that they’ll never have another pet. But in time almost all of them change their minds. My reason for this is that pet people are always pet people. Our human longing for companionship and the desire to care for another living being is undeniable and strong. So despite the near inevitability of another loss down the road, most of us animal lovers open our hearts and homes again. Though a new pet will never replace a pet we’ve lost, welcoming a new companion into our lives helps to ease our grief so that we can eventually heal and love again.
Rose, however, didn’t want to wait or ease into anything. It seemed that she wanted to skip over the grieving process altogether. She called me every couple of days, insisting she was ready to get another bird. Finally, I gave in and agreed to help her. I knew of someone who rescued Quaker parrots.
“But I don’t want a parrot,” Rose said, with what sounded like a little disdain.
“Quaker parrots are quite similar to parakeets,” I said. “And they’re friendly, bond to their owners, can learn tricks, live a long time, they’re smart, and like parakeets, they’re a little squawky. But a Quaker parrot is different enough that you will feel as if you are adopting a new bird. Remember, no bird will ever be exactly like Charlie. Every animal has its own distinct personality and traits that you grow to know and love over time.”
I looked at Elliot now, in his thick, horn-rimmed glasses that fall down his nose, with a red-and-black-striped snake looped around his arm. No doubt, Scarlet couldn’t be more different, in appearance anyway, from his childhood bird, with her tangerine cheeks and lyrical song. I wondered if this was Elliot’s unique way of recovering from his loss and moving on.
THE LAST TIME I’d seen the markings of a king snake in the hospital, they had encircled the wrist of another extern in the bold black and red ink of a tattoo. Jackson, another visiting vet student, was in the same summer program as Elliot. On his first day, he stomped through the hospital halls in his motorcycle boots, acting as if he were already a doctor to whom my technicians should answer. His attitude was bossy, overly opinionated, and contradictory. I sensed right away that he might not be easy to work alongside, even for a short period. Still, I’d been willing to give him a chance.
But in the wake of Trixie’s passing, his callousness toward Elliot showed me that he did not have the critical qualities I deem necessary to make a good veterinarian.
I’d heard them loading up on coffee one afternoon when I was getting some gauze out of the supply closet across from the break room.
“Bro, you definitely need some caffeine,” Jackson said.
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” Jackson said with exaggeration. “It’s like—where’s Elliot? We’re assisting Dr. Hess on surgery today, and your head is totally somewhere else. I know you lost your pet, but you need to seriously ask yourself whether you’re cut out to do this if you’re going to break down every time an animal dies.”
My mouth fell open. Elliot walked swiftly out of the break room and caught me standing in the hallway, frozen in place.
“I’m sorry,” I mouthed the words. He lowered his head and continued down the hall.
I wanted to strangle Jackson for attacking Elliot, who, in my opinion, was mourning his childhood companion just as he should—like a human being. Instead, I looked around for Marnie. I found her in the nearest exam room, patiently clipping a ferret’s nails.
“I cannot believe him!” I sputtered.
“What are you talking about?” she asked calmly and clipped a nail.
“Jackson! He has no sensitivity. He just said the most hurtful thing to Elliot who is the most sensitive. Jackson could learn a thing or two about bedside manners from Elliot.”
She sighed. “Let him go.”
“You mean, let ‘it’ go or dismiss him from the program?” I’d never done that before. But maybe Marnie was right. The type of extern and future doctor I wanted to help cultivate is kind to every animal he treats, regardless of species, and empathetic to the emotions of clients who may be very emotional over the illness or death of their pets. I also only wanted students who were team players. Jackson, so far, hadn’t exhibited any of these characteristics. Without them, I don’t believe an individual can be successful in this profession.
Marnie clipped another nail and looked up at me. “What do you think is best for the hospital? What do you think is best for him?” Whereas I was reacting to the situation emotionally and in defense of Elliot, Marnie was taking her characteristic mature approach.
I said, “Perhaps it is better for Jackson to realize now, early on, what he needs to change and decide if this is the right career path to follow.”
Marnie nodded her approval and went back to her work.
Jackson was in my program for another two days before I asked him to leave. When I suggested he might find another veterinary hospital in which to complete his externship, he just nodded, picked up his leather jacket, and walked out. This final demonstration of detachment and insensitivity confirmed for me my decision to let him go. He was not the right fit for my hospital.
I RETURNED MY focus to Elliot as he curled Scarlet’s tail around his wrist. “It’s great to see you again.” I winked. “You always warm up the room. And I’m glad you’ve found a new pet. Any animal is lucky to have you.”
8:30 P.M., HOME
FINALLY IN MY driveway, I slid out of the car and looked up at the sky. It was clear, brilliant, and cold. I cinched my jacket in close and turned toward the warm glow of light pouring out from our large, picture-frame kitchen window. Through it, I could see long and lanky Brett, my studious eighth grader, bent over a stack of books at our long pine kitchen table. In the next room, I suspected, his younger and more relaxed ten-year-old brother, Luke, and Peter were sprawled out on the couch, laughing at something on TV. Dale, our cranky pionus parrot, would be perched on Peter’s shoulder, as he often is, no doubt inserting himself into the conversation with snorts and chatty squawks. I delighted in envisioning the familiar, animated scene and trudged toward the house.
I came in with a bang, dragging my purse, gym duffel, and computer bag into the kitchen. All four cats swarmed around my feet, meowing loudly for me to feed them. Dale screamed a loud “Hello baby” from the den, and Lennon and Ringo, Luke’s singing canaries, joined in the call of the wild from their cages upstairs.
“How’s it going, honey?” I said to Brett as I walked over to where he was doing his homework among a pile of crumpled papers and empty snack wrappers.
“Hi, Mom,” he mumbled as he slipped off his headphones. “Did you bring dessert?”
A typical welcome home. As much as I’d hoped to make it to the table for dinner, I was arriving late, in time only for dessert. This was no big surprise. Peter was accustomed to my long and late hours, and on the rare occasions when I did make it through the back door before the dinner dishes were cleared, he’d tease, “Doc, you feeling okay?” Brett and Luke equally enjoy ribbing me. They’ve even nicknamed me “Dessert Lady,” not just because I’m often late getting home but also because I guiltily bring them dessert.
“Salted caramel pie,” I whispered in his ear.
His eyes widened. “Don’t tell Luke. I want to cut the first piece.”
Even though Peter and the boys have gotten used to the routine, every time I’m late I regret it. If I were a better mom, I think as I mentally kick mysel
f, I’d be home every night in time to make dinner. But since opening the animal hospital, I’ve become more reliable with whipped cream.
2
WILL I EVER BELONG?
TUESDAY, 7:00 A.M., HOME
As I backed out of our driveway into the icy street, I nearly hit my neighbor Katherine’s recycle bin, perfectly stacked with aluminum cans and neatly folded cardboard boxes.
“Crap,” I said out loud. “Is it garbage day?” I glanced back toward the garage where our two full bins stood, crammed full of loose paper and crushed soda bottles. It was Brett and Luke’s responsibility to haul them down to the street every week, but since neither Peter nor I could ever remember when collection day was, how could we blame the boys for also forgetting? When we moved to Mount Kisco from New York City, we went nearly three weeks waiting for a garbage pickup that never came. When I finally called the city and complained, an accommodating and bemused woman told me that garbage pickup “doesn’t just happen out here.” She explained that every homeowner must arrange for pickup. After years of living in city apartments, Peter and I had also assumed that TV cable service would be almost automatic. In the city, when you want to install cable, you simply call someone and say, “Turn it on.” But in our new neck of the woods upstate, homes don’t come prewired for HBO.
I put the car into park, jumped out, and marched up the long driveway to drag the containers across our gravel driveway. The pebbles crunched under my boots as I rolled the bins down to the street, and I glanced up at Katherine’s front window, half expecting to see her tight ponytail and customary frown, but the curtains were still pulled shut. I hopped back into the warmth of the car and tore off down the street.
The night before, Katherine had caught me arriving home late—for the second time. After I had helped Brett put the finishing touches on his PowerPoint presentation for school and both boys had gone off bed, I’d returned to the hospital to keep a late-night watch on Lily and Mathilda. When I finally lumbered home, it was after 2 a.m., so it was actually morning. From inside the dark car I noticed Katherine in a pink chenille robe, slowly pacing around her spacious white kitchen with Amelia, her newborn, curled over her shoulder. At this hour, I thought, she was probably up heating a bottle or attempting to lull a fussy baby back to sleep. She noticed my headlights and went to the window to glare across the moonlit lawn in my direction. Katherine had been overtly critical of me and my “frequent absences from home” since the day we had moved in across the street. She was constantly gossiping about me with other neighbors, who dutifully reported back to me.
At last year’s neighborhood holiday party, after I’d had a rum-spiced cider, I overheard her snicker and say to another guest, “She’s always at that zoo. I don’t know who’s raising those boys.”
Peter heard it, too, and calmly led me out of the room before I could respond. “Ignore her,” he whispered, gently squeezing my arm. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“It’s an animal hospital,” I said quietly, fuming.
He squeezed my arm a little tighter and smiled. “It’s not going to kill you to get along.”
“It might.”
If her son Gilman and our son Brett hadn’t been classmates from an early age and now playing on the same soccer team, I’d happily have told Katherine to mind her own business. But it did make more sense to try to get along. At least, that’s what Peter said.
In the sixteen years since we’d moved from Manhattan to Westchester County, I’d found that the acceptable roles for women in my area were about as current as black-and-white television. You’d never guess we were only an hour’s commuter train ride outside Manhattan, where professional women abound. But in our suburban town, most women stay home.
Peter and I had wrestled over the decision to move here. We’d both grown up in the city and loved its high energy and pace and the accessibility it offered to all things educational and entertaining. Still, when the time came to start a family, we knew we both wanted a different experience for our children—principally, a yard to play in and more than one bathroom to share. When I finished my residency at the Animal Medical Center in Manhattan, we moved out of our high-rise on East 86th Street and bought a 1750 saltbox colonial in Mount Kisco. With 3,000 square feet inside and two acres in the back, which Peter’s parents, natives of Brooklyn, referred to as “the grounds,” it more than fulfilled our fantasy of spacious country living. We’d made the right decision to move; Peter and I were both confident about that. Yet, nearly two decades later, something still felt a little bit off. Mount Kisco had most certainly become home, but Katherine’s sneering comments helped to reinforce my feeling that I didn’t really belong here. Would I ever?
THE NIGHT BEFORE I had driven down Route 117, blessedly free of traffic at ten-thirty at night, and pulled into the hospital parking lot in just over five minutes. I’d found Lily and Mathilda both lying flat on their cage floor, stretched out, eyes closed. They were clearly weak; any healthy glider would have been active and curious at this time of night and climbing the walls of his or her cage. Still, I was relieved that their status was no worse than a few hours before. It seemed I’d bought myself some more time.
I retreated to my dark office, determined to spend some uninterrupted, quiet time poring over veterinary journals. I thought there must be a published paper that could explain the gliders’ symptoms—weakness, lack of appetite, trembling. I flipped through the Journal of Exotic Pet Medicine and sifted through my stack of zoo and wildlife textbooks, but many hours later I hadn’t found a single written report that went beyond naming nutritional deficiency as the cause of the symptoms. And I’d already ruled that out.
I turned back to my computer and opened a new browser window. I typed in “sugar gliders for sale” and “Johnson Valley Mall.” Bob had said he’d bought Lily at a mall, and Johnson Valley was one of the biggest in the area. I hit enter, and immediately up popped a story posted on Westchesterjournal. com. The headline read, “Perfect-Sized Pockets of Fun Briefly Sold at Johnson Valley Mall.” I followed the link and scanned the story: “Sales on appliances and electronics aren’t the only thing drawing shoppers’ attention at Johnson Valley. For a limited time, Sugar Buddies has set up shop in the Central Court selling an animal called a sugar glider. The animals cost $500 for a total kit, which includes instructions on how to care for them, a new cage and a month’s supply of food. For four days, shoppers can stop for a demonstration of these small, gliding marsupials in the same general family as a kangaroo or koala bear.”
I stared at the accompanying photo of a baby glider with a tiny bubble gum pink nose and matching feet poised to leap into the air. Bob hadn’t remembered the name of the vendor he’d adopted Mathilda from, but this had to be the one. I scrolled down the page. “Sugar Buddies has been selling exotic animals at malls throughout the tri-state area.” Hadn’t Maxine also purchased Georgie from a mall in upstate Connecticut?
PETER’S READING LIGHT was still on when I slid into bed. He was fast asleep, propped up by pillows, the TV remote control in one hand and Sports Illustrated in the other. I folded up the magazine and glanced at the clock—2:32 a.m., much later than I’d intended to get home.
“Peter,” I whispered.
He cracked open a sleepy eye and squinted at the clock. “Home before breakfast? I wasn’t expecting you until coffee time.”
“Very funny,” I said and turned off his light. “I think I’m onto something.”
He pulled back the covers. “Well, then, get into bed and tell me about it before it’s time to get up.”
I crawled into bed and unraveled what I’d discovered about Sugar Buddies while Peter listened quietly and attentively.
“What if Bob and Maxine’s gliders are somehow linked?” I finally concluded. “The article said the company is selling exotic animals at malls throughout New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut.”
“It sounds plausible,” he said into the darkness. “Let’s see what I ca
n dig up.” He reached over and turned back on his reading light, fumbling for his glasses.
My husband the lawyer welcomes every opportunity he can to play detective. I’ve always teased him that criminal defense, not entertainment law, is his true calling.
Our mutual friend Marjorie set us up when Peter was studying at Harvard Law and I was in veterinary school at Tufts. Marjorie had somehow convinced herself, as she tried separately to convince us, that we’d be “perfect together,” I guess since we are both native New Yorkers on the bookish, nerdy side. At her insistence, we agreed to meet at an Italian restaurant in the North End of Boston.
From the moment we sat down, I began rattling on, as I tend to do when I’m nervous, about my senior year of clinical rotation when I suddenly realized we’d gotten through the entire first course and Peter had hardly said a word. Or, more accurately, I hadn’t given him the opportunity to say much of anything. I put down my fork, took a deep breath, and said, “I talk a lot. I’m sorry. Enough about me. I want to know about you.”
“Okay. What do you want to know?” he said. I liked that he smiled easily.
“Let’s see, tell me about your family, like what does your father do?”
Peter cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He took a sip of his pinot.
Oh, good going, Laurie. His father must be dead.
“Peter, I’m sorry. Is he—?”
“He’s a furrier.” Peter set down his glass.
“Oh!” I said with surprise. The fur trade? I hadn’t seen that coming.
“And something tells me you wouldn’t be interested in a mink coat at a great discount?”
Peter’s smile returned, and I couldn’t help but smile back. Underneath the guise of a Harvard-educated attorney, he was playful, and when he recognized that I also had a sense of humor (when I didn’t throw red paint on him and storm out of the restaurant in protest), we relaxed. The second course was animated and flirtatious. It didn’t hit another sour note until he told me he’d never had a pet growing up.
