The Good, the Bad & the Beagle

by Burns, Catherine Lloyd

  Cadbury didn’t seem to mind Dr. Harskirey or what she was saying. Veronica wished she felt the same way.

  “Some dogs are diagnosed early and some dogs, like Cadbury, show no signs until their hearts have built up so much fluid the damage is irreversible. You didn’t do anything wrong. It is a hereditary condition most of the time.”

  “Veronica,” her mother said quietly, “do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Veronica answered. “Cadbury’s heart is too big and it makes him tired.”

  Veronica had a math test first thing in the morning. She should be at home studying. It was about symmetry, which was easy, but there was a section on percentages, which was hard.

  “What is the treatment?” her mother said.

  “In Cadbury’s case all we can do is keep him comfortable.”

  “That’s it?” Veronica felt her mother’s arms tighten around her. She thought she might choke.

  “I’m afraid so,” Dr. Harskirey said. “He is quite far gone, and it is just going to get worse.”

  “What do you mean?” Veronica asked. “He is just going to get more tired?”

  “Yes. And then his heart will give out. Or if you feel he is too uncomfortable you may decide to euthanize him.”

  “Honey, look at me,” Mrs. Morgan said, turning Veronica to face her. “Do you understand what the doctor is saying?”

  “Yes,” Veronica said. She was annoyed. “Yes, I do. Cadbury’s heart is too big and he will be tired and not as playful for the rest of his life.”

  Cadbury was always going to die. She was going to die. Her mother and father were going to die. It was all part of the cycle of life, the seasons of the year like they talked about at Randolf. The leaves fall off the trees, the ground freezes, the earth hibernates waiting to be reborn in spring and it all culminates in the bounty of summer. Blah blah blah.

  Mrs. Morgan was crying. Her poor mother always overreacted. All those years spent forcing herself to be sympathetic, even when nothing was going on. If only she made a big deal out of stuff that actually mattered. Like getting school uniforms tailored properly and cooking for her family.

  “You should get a second opinion,” Dr. Harskirey said.

  “We will. Thank you. But from what I see on the X-rays and what I remember from medical school, I can’t imagine it will be much different. How much time do you think he has, Dr. Harskirey?”

  “It’s hard to say. I will prescribe some medications to reduce the inflammation and relax the heart muscle, but frankly I’m surprised he’s made it this long. Right now it is all about keeping him comfortable.”

  * * *

  A burst of cold air slapped Veronica in the face as they stepped outside the vet’s office.

  “Honey, pull your hat down. I don’t want you to catch a cold,” Mrs. Morgan said. She fiddled with Veronica’s hat and hailed a taxi. “Where are your gloves? Please say you didn’t lose them.”

  “Can we not talk about my stupid gloves!” Veronica snapped.

  “Don’t yell at me, Veronica. I feel as bad as you do,” her mother said.

  No, you don’t, Veronica thought, nobody feels as bad as I do. But she didn’t say anything. She just held on to Cadbury as tightly as possible.

  Colors

  “It’s hard to imagine how radical these paintings were when they first appeared,” Ms. Padgett said the following day in main lesson. They were doing a unit about the Impressionists. “Painting motion and life and nuance instead of stationary objects in the act of being perfectly still was really bold! The Impressionists took the rules of composition and form and ignored them. They dedicated themselves to perceiving more elusive subjects like light.”

  A week earlier Ms. Padgett had showed the class a slide of Monet’s Women in the Garden. It was a beautiful scene. A woman ran around a tree, another woman smelled flowers, and another sat on the grass.

  “It’s important to remember that, although now the Impressionists are household names, at the time, they were the oddballs. Many critics mocked their work because they dared to see the world in an unconventional, newly observed way.”

  The lights in the classroom were off and the shades were drawn and Veronica was miles away. Ms. Padgett must have noticed because she addressed Veronica directly when she said, “Girls, it is almost always the oddballs of the world who make a difference. The people who fit in, the people who are like everyone else, may be popular, but they are not the ones who rewrite history.”

  The only history Veronica wanted to rewrite was Cadbury’s. It was hard to imagine thinking about anything beyond her own circumstances. If Veronica could change Cadbury’s fate, that would be plenty. She didn’t need to change the world.

  At the end of class, Ms. Padgett assigned projects. “You are all deep thinkers and I want you to explore how these paintings work emotionally and respond with your own piece of art.” Veronica had probably failed her symmetry test that morning, so she was grateful to have another chance.

  “Go to the museum and look at Monet’s gardens, the haystacks, the water lilies, whatever moves you. You have two weeks to create an original work of art. A piece of music, an essay, a painting of your own—the medium is less important than the expression of an idea. I’m pairing you. You can work as a team or just use each other to bounce ideas off of.”

  Veronica and Melody were paired. Melody beamed.

  And as soon as class was over she cornered her. “I’m so excited. My parents are so strict about playdates, but we won’t be playing. It will be academic. Let’s work every day, okay? Can you come over this afternoon?”

  Veronica hated to burst her bubble. “I can’t, Melody. My dog is sick. I have to go home.”

  The project sounded fun in theory, but trips to the museum or to Melody’s house would be impossible. Cadbury needed her every afternoon, every night. The assignment was going to be a disaster.

  Scrabble

  Mary drank a cup of tea and put down a plate of Oreos. Veronica relaxed for the first time all day. Cadbury was resting his head on her lap, and life was livable. “Scrabble?” Mary suggested. Veronica was thrilled to oblige. She covered Cadbury with a quilt and gently twirled his ears while Mary unfolded the board and threw down the letters.

  “Mary, tell me about your family,” Veronica said. Mary’s family had lived through World War II. There weren’t many of them left and the subject was usually off-limits. But under the circumstances, Veronica hoped Mary would bend. She felt like traveling somewhere that wasn’t here or now.

  “Oh, my baby. That was a long time ago. And very far away. You know I don’t like to talk about it. It lives in me. That is enough.” Mary looked up and smiled a sad smile. “I made him some livers today. Just like my mother used to make. Good for his heart. He is eating, that is a good sign.”

  Unlike her parents, Mary didn’t make Veronica talk about anything. Veronica fiddled with her Scrabble letters and arranged the word r-a-d-i-u-s on the board. Thirty-one points. It was a decent word, not a fancy word, but it utilized the triple word score. Mary, for all her infinite wisdom and kindness, had never mastered triple and double word scores. Veronica nearly always won.

  “You know what I do, my baby, when I am worried?”

  “What?” Veronica asked. She tried to relax her face so she didn’t look worried.

  “I remind myself that I am loved. Don’t make a face and tell me it is cornmeal.”

  “Corny.”

  “Nothing is all the way bad when there is that. It is a shelf. To catch you from falling all the way down. I love you. Your parents love you very much. Cadbury loves you. Look how he loves you. And he is right there, still breathing, very much alive, on your lap. It is too soon to worry, my baby.”

  Mary spelled t-o-y and got six points. “It is your turn, my baby,” Mary said.

  Veronica carefully removed her hand, which had been resting under Cadbury’s barrel chest and had fallen asleep. She shook it, and the dog gave a sigh. Mary was right. It wa
s too soon to worry. She looked back at her letters. She had a J. The word j-o-y came to mind. But there was no place to make that word with the letters on the board arranged the way they were. And even if there was, j-o-y was hardly worth the measly thirteen points.

  “Do you have homework, my baby?” Mary asked.

  “No,” Veronica lied. She couldn’t very well work on her Monet project if she wasn’t at the museum. Tomorrow she would go to the museum. Tomorrow she would deal with Melody because tomorrow Cadbury would be better. Tomorrow he would need her less.

  Noodle Art

  It had been five days since Dr. Harskirey’s diagnosis and four days since the Impressionist project had been assigned. Veronica was so focused on Cadbury she hadn’t met with Melody once. Cadbury was taking three medications now. One had to be administered on an empty stomach and two had to be taken with food. Veronica made a schedule and a calendar and took it upon herself to mark off each dose. His medication was supposed to make him more comfortable, but it seemed to make him exhausted. He slept practically all the time.

  “I hate that vet,” Mrs. Morgan said at dinner. “She’s like a surgeon: all skill and no heart. Oh, I don’t know what we are going to do.”

  “Veronica, do you agree with your mother? What do you think of Dr. Harskirwhoosie?” Mr. Morgan passed his wife the lamb.

  “I don’t know,” Veronica said. She was absently twirling lo mein on her fork and then turning her fork in the opposite direction so the noodles all fell off.

  “How are you, honey?” her mother asked. “When I’m sad I overeat. Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, you’re lucky. I will probably blow up like a balloon on top of everything. This has been an awful week.” Mrs. Morgan blew her nose into her napkin and started to cry.

  “A terrible time,” her father echoed.

  It was a terrible time but, truth be told, her mother’s feelings were taking up all the room. Veronica figured she would wait until her mother calmed down. Maybe then her own feelings could come to the surface. For now she put her bare feet on top of Cadbury, who was half-asleep under her chair.

  “It’s a lot to process.” Her mother wiped her nose. “Do you have any questions, honey? Anything you’d like to talk about? Talking really helps.”

  “It is really a big blow. There is so much to talk about. Marion, pass that wonderful green dish, will you?”

  “What can we do? We want to help you,” her mother said. Mr. Morgan got up from his chair and put his arms around his wife, who was crying uncontrollably.

  “Oh, I’m a mess!” Mrs. Morgan said, honking her nose like an old goose. “I wish I had your composure, lovey.” She blew her nose into a wad of Kleenex.

  Veronica didn’t know what to say. She was with her parents, surrounded by familiar white cardboard takeout containers, doing what they did best—eating Chinese food—but she felt alone and frightened. If only she hadn’t taken Cadbury to see Esme in the first place. She wedged one of her feet under Cadbury. His body kept her feet warm, even though he couldn’t seem to keep himself warm. No matter where he was in the house, in front of a radiator, on his fleecy dog bed, or wrapped in a blanket, he shivered.

  “Veronica, are you sure you wouldn’t like to talk about anything?” Mr. Morgan asked.

  “No, I don’t want to talk about anything,” Veronica said. “May I be excused?” She couldn’t sit there with them for another second. Not that she had anywhere better to go.

  * * *

  She lifted Cadbury into bed. She followed the outline of his spots, tracing them with her finger. There were five of them. Five distinct caramel islands in a sea of white. She made a little boat with her finger and took a trip in the ocean of his white fur.

  “Where shall we travel, Cadbury? Where will we be happy?” Cadbury looked into Veronica’s eyes and she looked back into his.

  Poor Melody

  Melody cared so much about grades and Veronica was sick with guilt for letting her down about the project. She hadn’t met with her once, which was pretty much the worst thing you could do to Melody, other than criticize her singing voice or opera in general. Veronica knew she needed to apologize. She waited all morning until Melody was alone by her locker.

  “Hi, Melody,” Veronica said.

  “Are you mad at me?” Melody asked.

  “Melody, no. I’m not mad at you,” Veronica said.

  “My mother doesn’t think you’re a good friend,” Melody said. “She thinks you’re letting me do all the work.”

  “I am. I’m sorry,” was all Veronica could muster. This conversation wasn’t relieving her of guilt. If anything, it was making it worse. And poor Melody had it all wrong. Veronica wasn’t the one who was mad. Melody was the one who should be mad but she was so nice, she blamed herself. Veronica had become the Cricket Cohen to Melody Jenkins’s Veronica. It was horrible.

  “What gives, you guys?” Sarah-Lisa said. “Veronica, you have been, like, totally antisocial. Right, Athena?”

  “What have you been doing, Veronica? Do you have a secret life?” Athena asked. There was an awkward silence.

  “Um,” Melody said uncertainly, “that’s what we were just talking about.”

  “Yeah,” Veronica said.

  “Well, what’s with you?” Sarah-Lisa asked.

  “Cadbury might be sick.”

  “Oh no,” Athena said. “My mom was really sick last week.”

  Athena and Sarah-Lisa went into Mr. Bower’s room for science. Nothing was going the way she wanted it to go. “Melody,” Veronica finally said, “you shouldn’t count on me. You should turn the project in as your own. I can’t do it with you.”

  She thought clarifying that would make things better, but Melody looked like she’d been punched in the stomach.

  Signs

  In Veronica’s mind, if Dr. Harskirey’s diagnosis was true, she and her mother would have left the office that afternoon and the world outside would have been altered. Radically. News that big had to change things. But the doormen still dotted Fifth Avenue in their colorful regalia just like always. The homeless man was still asleep on his regular bench on 103rd Street. Everything continued the next day and every day after as though nothing had happened. The food cart on Ninety-Sixth Street served the same stumbling early-morning crowd. Men and women clutched butter-stained bagel bags and cardboard cups of steaming coffee. Athena and Sarah-Lisa still wore matching cardigan sets, Melody was still in the children’s chorus trying her hand at popularity, and Sylvie was still pulling spines out of fish carcasses. The sky hadn’t split open hurling black snow to the ground, there were no flying elephants, there were no frogs leaping from faucets, no tigers stalking Central Park, not a single symbol to corroborate the horrible event Dr. Harskirey said was coming.

  Veronica looked everywhere. She didn’t find it, so she concluded that Dr. Harskirey was wrong and that her parents were wrong to believe her. She chose to believe that Cadbury, like everything everywhere else in the world, was the same as before.

  All she had to do was believe that everything would be okay and it would be okay. It wasn’t easy, but it’s what Morning Meeting had prepared her for: replace a negative with a positive. She had never been more determined to look at the bright side.

  More Opinions

  Mrs. Morgan didn’t believe everything was fine and that nothing had changed. She took Cadbury for second and third opinions with veterinarian heart specialists named Dr. Humphreys and Dr. Adelman. Over moo shu chicken and orange beef Mr. Morgan inquired, “Do Humphreys and Adelman agree with Harskirey?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shipt.”

  “It is awful,” Mrs. Morgan said. “Please pass the dumplings and the Kleenex and don’t curse at the dinner table.” She blew her nose loudly and wiped more tears from her face.

  “I didn’t curse. I almost did. But I didn’t.”

  “Oh, Marvin, it really seems to be just a matter of time.”


  “Your mother is quite a woman, you know that?” Mr. Morgan said, taking a dumpling before passing them on. “Juggling her patients, a dying dog, and managing to get second and third opinions.”

  “Stop it!” Veronica said. The aggression in her voice surprised everyone. Including herself. But how dare they. All she had done for the last two weeks was try to protect Cadbury by thinking positive thoughts and here, in front of him, her parents were blatantly undermining her efforts.

  “You’re upset, honey. And you should be. This is so upsetting. It is so upsetting,” her mother said. She got up from the table and came around to Veronica’s chair.

  “It really is so upsetting,” her father said, and it wasn’t clear if he was speaking to himself or to Veronica.

  They didn’t get it. She was Cadbury’s antenna. She was responsible for bringing him home. He was tuned in to one station only and that station played the show called Everything Is Fine and Nothing Has Changed. Her parents were messing up the signal.

  * * *

  The next day, Melody handed in the Monet project and barely looked at Veronica. She was proud of Melody for that. Melody had written an essay and Veronica bet it would be very good. So now the job of exposing Veronica for the negligent student and bad school partner she was belonged to Ms. Padgett. Veronica watched the clock, waiting for the other shoe to drop. She wanted someone to get mad at her. When would Ms. Padgett announce she was a bad girl? There would be a heavy price to pay for her behavior.

  It would hurt. She was ready.

  But class was dismissed.

  Devotion

  Veronica quickly adjusted her expectations. She would get in trouble when the projects were handed back on Monday. It made perfect sense. Monday morning, she would go down like the Titanic while Melody was held up as an example of everything good. Veronica understood that getting kicked out of Randolf was a very real possibility. She should be kicked out. She had behaved like a scoundrel.