by Nick Pirog
A moment later, a forty-something woman holding a dachshund emerges from the hallway. She pays her bill, then starts towards the door.
I give her a quick smile.
She smiles back, then her nose twitches, and she swallows hard.
I cock my head down towards Murdock.
She can’t push through the front doors fast enough.
Rebecca calls me forward and tells me that I can take Lassie and head to Exam Room 1.
I ask, “Is it okay if Murdock hangs out here with you?”
“Of course,” she says with a smile.
Murdock stands up and waddles over to the reception desk, then plops down right next to Rebecca’s chair.
Ground zero.
Lassie and I head down the hall and into Exam Room 1.
It’s 3:19 a.m.
A handful of seconds tick by, then the door opens and a man in his mid-thirties walks through. He has a goatee and black rimmed glasses. He introduces himself as Dr. Matthews.
“What’s going on with this little guy?” he asks.
“He just hasn’t been himself lately,” I say.
“Well, let’s take a look.”
I ask, “Is it okay if I use the restroom while you start the exam?”
“Of course,” he says, then directs me down the hall two doors.
I exit, then close the door.
I head back to the reception desk.
I sniff a couple times.
Nothing.
I round the bend, startling Rebecca slightly, and say, “Oh, sorry about that, just wanted to check on this guy.”
I lean down on my haunches.
“We’re good,” she says with a smile. “He’s a sweetie.”
“Good, well, I had to step out of the exam to check my phone. I’m just gonna listen to this voicemail real quick.”
Before I stand up, I grab Murdock’s belly with both hands and I shake it repeatedly. When I finish, his face looks like he just spent five minutes on a carousel.
I head back to the seat I sat in earlier and pull out my cellphone. Six inches of Murdock’s tail is visible behind the reception desk. With the phone to my ear, I stare at his tail. My shaking his belly must have acted as a catalyst, and it doesn’t take long. His tail lifts. Once, twice, then a third time.
I imagine it is similar to watching the pin pulled on a grenade.
I count.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
Three Mississi—
Rebecca’s eyes bulge. She stares down, almost unbelieving. Her head shakes and her shoulder’s bounce. Her bottom lip is vacuumed halfway up her nostrils.
“Uh, uh, I gotta check on something in the back,” she stammers, then darts from behind the desk.
I wait two beats, then jump up and scurry behind the desk.
Even holding my breath, I nearly lose consciousness.
I don’t need to smell it.
I can feel it.
What have I done?
I lean down to make sure Murdock hadn’t accidentally sharted all over the ground.
He didn’t.
“Dude!” is all I can say.
I take a deep breath through my mouth, which still makes my body quake in disgust, and sit down behind the keyboard.
I’m guessing I have a minute, maybe two, before Rebecca returns.
The computer is easy to navigate and I click on a folder marked, “Patient Files.”
A tab opens and I search, “Billy.”
There are multiple Billys and I change the search to “Rasmussen.”
There are two.
Rasmussen Cat and Rasmussen Gerbil.
I click on Rasmussen Gerbil, which is connected to Billy Gerbil.
I scroll down and read the notes:
January 18, 2013, 3:13 p.m. — Appointment for gerbils to have teeth and nails filed. Billy has white puff on nose. Rasmussen all tan. Billy weighs 1.4 oz., Rasmussen 1.5 oz.
January 18, 2013, 6:16 p.m. — UPDATE! After filing, gerbils were held in cage awaiting pick-up. They must have gotten out. Spent last hour looking for them. Couldn’t find them. Called owner and alerted them.
January 20, 2013, 8:00 a.m. — No sign of gerbils, presumed dead. Offered to buy owners two new gerbils, but they declined.
I read ‘presumed dead’ a second time and find it amusing. It is language Ingrid would use to describe one of her cases. I wonder if they thought foul play was involved. A double gerbilicide.
Anyhow, there aren’t any more entries until three weeks earlier.
April 3, 2015, 2:25 p.m. — Found one of the escaped gerbils in the hall closet. Think it’s Billy. Contacted owners. They moved out of country.
There is one more entry.
A door opens.
Rebecca coming back.
I start back around the desk, then stop. I didn’t learn anything yet. I need to read the last entry.
I turn back to the computer.
April 6, 2015, 10:23 a.m. — Donated gerbil to Channing Elementary School.
Channing Elementary School.
That is a mile and a half from my condo.
I click the folder closed, then drop to my knees just as Rebecca rounds the corner. I look up and say, “I think this guy might have some gas.”
“Really?” she says. “Didn’t notice.”
Right.
“Come here, buddy,” I beckon to Murdock. “Why don’t you wait outside?”
I open the door and Murdock plops down.
I rub his head and say, “Good job.”
He licks my hand.
I head back inside and open the door to the exam room.
“There you are,” Dr. Matthews says.
“Sorry, I had to take a call.”
“No problem.” He picks up Lassie, then says, “We’re all done here, looks like this guy has a pretty bad ear infection.”
I take a step back. “Really?”
“Yep, gonna have Rebecca give you some drops and he should be as good as new in a week.”
He hands Lassie to me.
“Which ear?” I ask.
“Both,” he says. “From the looks of it, I’d say he’s been submerging his head under water too frequently. Maybe cut down on washing him. Cats are pretty good at doing that themselves.”
I want to tell him that the last time I gave Lassie a bath was when he got sprayed by a skunk a year earlier and that I’m well aware cats lick themselves clean, evidence by the slimy mass that ended up on my chest the previous morning.
I decide not to say anything.
I thank him and we shake hands, then he leaves.
Once the door closes, I say, “Submerging your head under water? What are you doing when I’m asleep?”
Meow.
“Taking baths?”
Meow.
“You’ve been taking baths with Ingrid? How often is this going on?”
Meow.
“Every night she stays over?”
I don’t know what to think about this. My brain is filled with the image of Lassie lying in the bath on Ingrid’s naked chest, then his head submerging.
“And what are you doing when your head is submerged under water?”
He shrugs.
I let out a long exhale and attempt to remember why we came here in the first place.
“We’ll talk more about this later. For right now, no more baths, okay?”
He pouts, but finally agrees.
“All right, so I found out what happened to Billy.”
I tell him.
Meow.
“Okay, you go update Rasmussen and I’ll pay the bill.”
I open the door and glance in both directions.
All clear.
Lassie jumps to the ground and heads in the direction of the utility closet, which has a vent that leads to the ventilation duct where Rasmussen, and up until a week earlier, Billy, called home.
I use the restroom for a long minute, buying some time, then
head to the reception desk.
It is 3:39 a.m.
Rebecca hands me a vial of ear drops and asks, “Where is Lassie?”
“Oh, he’s just sniffing around in the hall.”
I pay the bill, then a half minute later, Lassie rounds the corner.
He bounds up on the counter, then jumps into Rebecca’s arms. She catches him, turning her back to the hallway.
I hear a soft pitter-pattering of feet and look down.
Rasmussen.
I bend down and hold out my hands.
The gerbil runs into my cupped hands, his tiny feet and whiskers tickling my palm. I wrap my left hand around him, attempting not to squish him to death.
Rebecca turns around. “You want a receipt?” she asks, putting Lassie down on the counter.
“Nope, I’m good,” I say, wondering what she will think if she notices me holding a tiny gerbil.
Uh, what’s with the gerbil?
Oh, this guy. Oh, I carry him everywhere.
Pretty sure I would have noticed you holding a gerbil when you came in.
I keep him hidden.
Hidden where?
Uh.
Luckily, my hand is big enough to conceal the little guy, save for his white whiskers sneaking between the cracks in my hand, and she doesn’t notice.
I head toward the door and say, “Thanks.”
Lassie bounds down onto the ground and follows me out the exit.
Murdock falls in behind the three of us and we all hop into the car.
Mission accomplished.
::::
I pull out of the vet parking lot. Lassie is on my lap, Rasmussen is in the cup holder, and Murdock is banished to the back seat with all the windows down.
Meow.
“Yep, just like Ocean’s Eleven,” I say. I have seen twenty-three movies and luckily, this was one of them. “Only we would have to call it Ocean’s Four.”
Meow.
“Brad Pitt? I thought you wanted to be Matt Damon.”
Meow.
“True. You do have to factor in Angelina.”
Meow.
“I’m Clooney, of course.”
Meow.
“Murdock is, uh, Bernie Mac.”
Meow.
I look down at Rasmussen in the cup holder. He twitches his whiskers back and forth.
“I’m not sure who he is. Maybe he’s that little Asian acrobat guy.”
::::
At 3:52 a.m., we make it back to the condo.
I do a Google search for Channing Elementary School, then find the principal’s contact info.
I grab a protein shake from the fridge and suck it down while I write the principal a short email and send it. Then I text Isabel to buy some gerbil food and a laundry list of other items.
At 3:58 a.m., I break up the dog/cat/gerbil wrestling match and put Lassie on the kitchen table.
I pin him to the table and attempt to put the prescription ear drops in his ears.
He whips his head back and forth.
“Yo, chill out. I need to put these drops in your ears.”
He does not chill out.
A minute and a half later, half the bottle of ear drops are gone, I have scratches all over my hands, two fingers are bleeding where the little punk bit me, and not a single drop of medicine has gone anywhere near either of Lassie’s ears.
I have just enough time to run to the bed before I fall asleep.
:03
“Thank you for contacting me, Mr. Bins. I am sorry to inform you that since you are not the owner of the gerbil that was donated to our school, I am unable to grant your request that we give you Billy. It was generous of you to offer to buy us a different gerbil, or a guinea pig, or any other animal the children may want, but according to the teacher of the class taking care of Billy, over the last two weeks, the 3rd graders have fallen in love with him. So much so, that starting this Saturday morning, the students will begin taking Billy home on weekends (a couple spats have even broke out over who gets to take him home.) I wish you the best in finding a replacement pet. Warm regards, Principal Hartwick.”
I flip the laptop closed and set it on the bedside table.
All three dingbats are lying on top of me. Murdock with his head on my thigh, Lassie and Rasmussen on my stomach.
“Sorry guys,” I say with a sigh. “But it looks like Billy is now the property of Channing Elementary School.”
Rasmussen brings his hands up over his eyes.
Murdock whimpers.
Lassie glares at me, then licks the top of Rasmussen’s fluffy little head.
“I’m sorry. I wish there was something more I could do.”
Meow.
I scoff and shake my head. “That’s crazy.”
Meow.
“You want me to break into an elementary school and steal back Billy? No, just, no.”
I feel the pitter-patter of Rasmussen as he climbs up my chest, until he is three inches from my face.
He squeaks, his whiskers twitching in overdrive.
I don’t need to be able to understand him to know what he’s saying.
He’s pleading with me to get his brother back.
I take a deep breath.
Was I really considering breaking into a elementary school to steal a gerbil and break the hearts of two dozen children?
Yes, I was.
Partly, because I wanted any reason to keep my mind off the red folder, but mostly because if it were Lassie or Murdock who were taken, I would break into Fort Knox to get them back.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go get him.”
::::
Isabel didn’t buy gerbil food.
The ever-amazing Isabel made gerbil food.
She left a note that she did some research online on what gerbils eat and went out and bought a bunch of different seeds and fruit. When she fed Tweedledee, Tweedledum, and Tweedledoo that afternoon, she said it appeared the little gerbil really liked her recipe.
I fill up a small bowl with her mix and set it out next to a bowl of kibble for Lassie and Murdock (Lassie insisted on eating the same brand as Murdock), which I brighten up with some cut up pieces of turkey and some blueberries.
For breakfast, I have four of Isabel’s giant meatballs and a tall glass of milk.
I find a notepad and at the top, I scribble “Operation Gerbil Rescue.”
I read Principal Hartwick’s email a second time and jot down some notes.
After he’s finished eating, Lassie hops up on the dining table.
I set my pen down and look up.
Meow.
“Your ears hurt? I wonder why.”
Meow.
“My fault? You clawed the shit out me the whole time. And you bit me twice.” I show him the two scabs on my fingers. “I probably have rabies.”
Meow.
“No, rabies is not an STD.”
Meow.
“You did not get it from the possum.”
Meow.
“Because you got a vaccination for it a year ago.”
Meow.
“I was kidding.”
Meow.
“Dude, you don’t have rabies!”
Meow.
“Ear pain is not a symptom of rabies, it is a symptom of an EAR INFECTION!”
Meow.
“YES—IN BOTH EARS!!”
I stand up and go grab what is left of the ear medication. Lassie struggles against me, but not as mightily as before and I am able to get three of four drops into each ear. I massage his ear canals like Rebecca instructed, then I sit back down and pick up the notepad.
I read the notes I scribbled.
Billy has been there two weeks.
3rd graders fallen in love with him.
Start taking him home for the weekend beginning Saturday morning.
At the school, inside what I assume is one of the 3rd grade classrooms, it would be difficult for Billy to escape. The teacher most likely wouldn’t allow the kids to ta
ke him out of the cage, or if she did, they would make sure the classroom was locked tight beforehand. But, when students begin taking him home for the weekends, there is a much better chance that unsupervised, they will take him out to play and he could make a run for it. And if he escapes, there is little chance he will survive long, and if he does, the odds of him making his way back to the vet and reuniting with Rasmussen were near impossible. And my guess is that Billy wouldn’t wait around. He would make a dash for it the first chance he got.
Principal Hartwick said that starting Saturday morning the students would begin taking Billy home for the weekends. I’m not sure why the student taking care of him isn’t taking him home on Friday after school, but this works in our favor.
Today is Thursday.
“We have to do it tomorrow,” I say.
I look at Lassie who is rolling around on the ground, rubbing his ears on the carpet.
He stops and nods.
I look at Murdock sitting back on his hind legs near the kitchen.
He nods.
I swivel my head from side to side.
“Where did Rasmussen go?” I ask.
Murdock lurches forward, opens his mouth, and Rasmussen tumbles out.
“Murdock,” I say. “Please stop eating and throwing up Rasmussen.”
Meow.
“I don’t care if he likes it.”
I squeeze my eyes together and lean my head back.
Let’s see here.
Trespassing.
Breaking and entering.
Possibly other laws I’m not aware of.
All to rescue another one of these nitwits.
I hear a thud and look down where Rasmussen once again comes tumbling out of Murdock’s mouth.
“STOP EATING RASMUSSEN!”
::::
My dad can’t hide the excitement in his voice.
“You’re gonna break into an elementary school?”
“It appears that way.”
He pauses for a second, then asks, “Can I come?”
If a sixty-five-year-old man asking if he can come break into a school with you doesn’t make you smile, then I don’t know what does.
