The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel

by Nick Trout

  Be detached, regimented, and mechanical. Sadly, I’m guessing not that different from how some people might already describe me.

  I take a minute to walk through the entire process in my mind, step by step. Everything is ready. I am prepared, but there’s still a nervous judder in my every breath.

  I plug in an electric clipper, turn it on, and startle at the harsh chatter of the blade.

  “It’s okay,” I say, more to myself than to Frieda. I reach out for a front leg and, without hesitation, Frieda does something so natural it stops me in my tracks—she offers up her paw. Believe me, anthropomorphic mumbo jumbo has no place in my vocabulary, but I’m at a loss for another way to describe a simple gesture that screams “I trust you.”

  And what an interesting oversize paw it is, great tufts of fur crammed between the webs like she’s wearing fuzzy golden slippers. Against my better judgment, and only because we are alone, I take it and tentatively shake it. My hand is still moving up and down when I notice the contracture of certain muscle groups around Frieda’s lips. This makes no sense. Is this dog smiling?

  I let go of her foot. What’s happening to me? Dogs can’t smile and “giving paw” is a learned response rewarded with food or physical attention. Reminding myself of these facts helps me regain a little composure, then I’m struck by something improbable—a few tiny flecks of what appears to be cracked pink nail polish clinging to her nail beds. This is unlikely to be the work of the man in the charcoal suit. Clearly, there is more to this dog’s story.

  Frieda paws the air between us for a second time. I groan. This proximity to a living creature is as unfamiliar as it is disturbing. It is precisely why I have spent my entire veterinary career avoiding this kind of awkward encounter. Of course I can do this, all of this, everything it takes to be a general practice veterinarian (hey, finishing top of my class at veterinary school should count for something). Trouble is, the last time I worked on an animal with a heartbeat was the week before graduation, and with the passage of time I may have underestimated a certain … I don’t know … sentimentality … messing with the process.

  “Let me clip a little fur, there we go.”

  Frieda’s panting has ceased, and the rhythm of her tail is beginning to slow. I return the clippers to the counter, pick up the rubber tourniquet, lasso her forelimb, and tighten it in place. I sense her head starting to relax and feel the warm air of her sigh whistle past my cheek as she settles her chin across her free front paw.

  Guess I’m not going to need that muzzle after all. Somehow, in spite of this alien encounter, Frieda remains content. Me, I can’t stop my hands from shaking.

  I focus on the bald swatch of skin, wipe the surface with alcohol, and watch as the vein declares itself—plump and straight.

  Golden retrievers are consistently one of the most popular breeds of dog, ranking fourth behind Labs, German shepherds, and beagles.

  The rapid thud of blood pulsing in my ears begins to slow. It’s a trick that rarely fails; a secret shared by an old anatomy instructor as a way to remain calm before an exam—the recitation of facts and observations. Always useful in high-pressure situations.

  Arguably, golden retrievers have had more leading roles in movies than any other breed.

  Okay, so some of my factoids are not clinically relevant.

  Roughly 60 percent of golden retrievers will die of cancer, a rate about twice as high as most other breeds.

  Perhaps I could tell myself that Frieda’s alleged incontinence stems from bladder cancer, an aggressive transitional cell carcinoma—inoperable and painful. If it were cancer, if I knew for sure, then I’d be doing her a favor by ending her suffering. I frown and shake my head. The truth is I’ll never know. I’m just trying to make myself feel better. If I’m going to pretend to be a real vet, even for a short time, then I must learn to embrace what for me is a totally foreign concept—clinical ambiguity.

  Needle and syringe in hand, I risk a look into Frieda’s eyes. Big mistake. Though her head remains perfectly still, her tail picks up the pace.

  “Good girl,” I manage, patting her head, betraying everything she sees in me as my trembling hand inserts the needle into the cephalic vein. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t make a sound. I pull back on the plunger, just like I was taught to do as a student, and a swirl of purple blood spins inside the syringe. I can’t believe it, I’m in on the first try.

  This is it. Now, I may not be the most sentimental guy in the world, but even I understand that this is a moment when Frieda should hear the comforting words of a familiar voice, feel the comforting touch of a loved one. Thoughts of my late mother’s passing fill my head, the comparisons impossible to ignore. I shake the recollection from my head in an attempt to focus.

  A golden retriever has never won Best in Show at Westminster.

  Standing in front of her I lean forward, move in close, middle and index finger stabilizing the plastic barrel, thumb extended, ready to drive the plunger home, and for the first time since we have met, Frieda’s tail has gone completely still.

  I lift my head ever so slightly, and this time the tip of Frieda’s tongue licks me squarely on my nose. And that’s it. That’s all it takes for me to finally accept I can’t do this. I quickly pull out the needle and squeeze my thumb over the vein. I’d totally forgotten about the way this sort of interaction makes me feel. No, forgotten is not the right word. Forgotten suggests something that faded over time, and, to be honest, I’ve followed a career path that sidestepped or suppressed precisely this kind of intense emotional confrontation. I guess I was never meant to be the kind of veterinarian who’s ready with a comforting word or a shoulder to cry on.

  Ten thousand cats and dogs are euthanized in the United States every day.

  Best make that ten thousand minus one.

  “This does not bode well,” I say out loud, my mind moving beyond this specific fiasco to everything else I will have to endure in order to get out of the mess I’m in. How I crave the soothing dead silence of my regular audience.

  What am I going to do? This crisis just shifted from tricky to disastrous. It’s more than the golden fur ball staring up at me expectantly; it’s the bigger problem of what forced me back to this very room, to this very town, for the first time in twenty-five years.

  Suddenly Frieda’s tail stops wagging, like she’s tuned in to something. And that’s when we both hear it—the jingle of the bell over the front door.

  Is Mr. Charcoal Suit back to see the deed is done?

  2

  We hear the sound of approaching footfalls. There’s nowhere to hide, and I can’t think of a good explanation.

  A cursory double tap, the examination room door swings open, and Frieda and I stare back like thieves with our hands (and paws) in the till.

  “Evening, Dr. Mills. You’re still here? How was your first night? Who’s your golden oldie?”

  Frieda is unwilling to wait for a formal introduction and goes straight into an unrestrained and physical greeting similar to the one she bestowed upon me.

  “Lewis, meet Frieda. My one and only case of the evening.”

  Dr. Fielding Lewis is an odd little man—ebullient, a close-talker sporting a ridiculously full head of gray hair for a seventy-three-year-old and, despite the late hour, obviously inclined to wearing colorful, silk bow ties. According to Lewis, he and the late Dr. Robert Cobb were best friends and professional rivals for the last fifteen years. And though he only works part-time, Lewis is the saving grace of this veterinary practice, a practice still burdened with the preposterous name The Bedside Manor for Sick Animals. What remains of this business may be on life support, but without the selfless dedication of Dr. Fielding Lewis, I have no doubt it would have flatlined long ago.

  Lewis tries to tear himself away from Frieda’s embrace. “What’s she in for?”

  I work an imaginary itch at the back of my head.

  “Well, I was having a hard time processing w
hat I was asked to do.”

  Lewis stops patting Frieda and considers me. “What exactly were you asked to do?”

  Frieda tolerates his dereliction of duty for no more than two seconds. She barks, and it is his turn to relent.

  I wince. “Put her to sleep.”

  He stops patting Frieda again. I can’t tell whether the dog is incredulous or offended. Either way, she circles back to settle beneath my right palm.

  “It can be tricky working alone on a rambunctious animal,” says Lewis. “I’d be more than happy to restrain her while you give the injection.”

  “That’s not the problem.”

  I hesitate and watch Lewis cant his head ever so slightly to one side, pushing his lips forward into a pensive pucker.

  “Then what is?”

  He’s waiting for an answer, but at the same time, I can tell he doesn’t expect to get one. How do I put the feelings into words? Answer: don’t even try. Stick with what you know best.

  “The problem is killing a dog charged with bouts of inappropriate urination based on nothing more than hearsay and circumstantial evidence.”

  Lewis flashes a wry smile. “But, Cyrus, I thought you of all people would be used to death and detachment.”

  “I am,” I say, though this synopsis of my career as a pathologist feels a little harsh.

  “Our profession has an enormous responsibility when it comes to euthanasia. We’re a service industry, and sadly, in the eyes of the law, pets are still considered property. Of course there are times when I wish I could convince an owner not to put an animal to sleep, but once the decision’s been made, and we’ve accepted the task, our duty is to see it through. We’re not in the animal rescue business. We simply can’t afford to be.”

  Lewis puts the lecture on hold as he considers me. “Is there something else you’re not telling me?”

  I sense he’s pushing buttons, continuing to probe, trying to crack me open. Perhaps I can get away with something evasive but still true.

  “You see, Fielding … the thing is … um … I’ve never been the person actually responsible for the act of taking a life.”

  Lewis leans back. “You’ve never performed a euthanasia?”

  I shake my head.

  “Do you want me to do it?”

  The creature remains content below my hand, gently panting, eyes closed. “Certainly not.”

  “Then what the hell are you going to do?” I think this is the first time I have heard Lewis raise his voice. “I mean this does not exactly constitute exemplary professional conduct, and for a man in your, how shall I put it, delicate situation, I’m pretty sure any hint of misrepresentation or deceit is the last thing we need.”

  I wipe my palms down my face and rest my fingertips over my lips. He’s absolutely right. The word delicate is an understatement. You see, in order to practice veterinary medicine at Bedside Manor, I need to be licensed in the state of Vermont, which should be a formality for an appropriately credentialed doctor of good standing. However, for a doctor whose out-of-state license has been suspended, pending a hearing, it’s a major problem. Lewis is the only person who knows. It doesn’t matter that the charges against me are a total fabrication, a vendetta by a former employer for filing a wrongful termination lawsuit. It doesn’t matter that this has nothing to do with clinical negligence or malpractice. What does matter (more than I can tell him to his face) is that Lewis believes and supports me, 100 percent. That’s why I explained to him that I would keep my head down, make sure my reputation remains unsullied and beyond reproach, and no one will be the wiser. At least until I achieve what I set out to do with Bedside Manor. What could possibly go wrong?

  “Thing is, there’s something not right about this dog.”

  Lewis scoffs, realizes I’m serious, and comes over to squeeze my shoulder. He’s way too touchy-feely for my liking.

  “Cyrus, I don’t mean to be critical, but you were the one who said you’d never worked a single day as a real veterinarian. Real was your word, not mine. Suddenly, with your very first case, you’re telling me you have acquired a sixth sense about a maligned golden retriever.”

  I force a smile. “Indulge me. Let’s give this dog the benefit of my doubt.”

  “What doubt?”

  “Doubt about the owner’s motive for getting rid of her.”

  Lewis releases his grip. “Who is the owner?”

  The realization of my rookie mistake paralyzes the muscles of the old man’s face.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, annoyed at the whiny high pitch of my voice. “He walked right in, demanding to put her to sleep. I’ve been in town one night, I’ve no idea what I’m doing, and my first customer demands I kill his dog. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  Lewis looks at the retriever. “I don’t recognize her. Are we sure this is Frieda? I don’t see a collar or a name tag.”

  “Frieda,” I call. Frieda twitches her ears and stares directly at me. “Quod erat demonstrandum.”

  Lewis rolls his eyes, shakes his head. “Brandy,” he calls. The dog formerly known as Frieda twitches her ears and stares directly at Lewis.

  “Point taken,” I say, “but I don’t think he would have made up a name like Frieda.”

  Lewis does not look convinced. He begins to pace. Suddenly he stops. “Where’s the consent form?”

  My hesitation, raised finger, and slow inhalation tell him everything.

  “So I’ll assume you never discussed the disposition of the body, general or private cremation, the type of urn required, etcetera.”

  “I couldn’t find the paperwork. I told you, it’s been a long, long time since any of this stuff even crossed my mind.”

  “Cyrus, this is bad. This is exactly the sort of thing that will sink us before we even get started. I mean what if the dog has been stolen? What if she doesn’t belong to the man who brought her in? What if he’s a disgruntled neighbor who hates dogs? What if the dog is part of a custody dispute, and he’s trying to punish his ex-wife by killing off her beloved retriever? You’ve got to wake up to the real world of veterinary medicine. The pet-owning public can be your conduit to the truth. If you want to keep this practice alive, you must learn to interact with them, you must learn to interpret their meaning, and you must learn that they are not always telling the truth.”

  I look away to stop myself from spilling the awful secret I’m keeping inside. “Who said anything about keeping this practice alive?”

  Utterly discredited, I grab a can of weight-loss prescription dog food from a shelf in the waiting room and let Frieda drag me by her cord across the main work area, through a door out back, and up a stairway to the living quarters on the second floor. In the right hands this house might have been a fine sprawling Victorian, but as far as I can tell, it’s a dilapidated husk of its former self—rotted siding, loose gutters, missing shingles, the list goes on and on. House hold chores and maintenance were clearly low priorities for the late Doc Cobb. Bedside Manor may not be the house all the kids fear on Halloween, but I’m pretty sure its restoration lies beyond the budget of most TV home improvement shows.

  At the top of the stairs there’s a heavy door, meant to ensure privacy and help muffle the sounds of barking dogs. Frieda barges through, slips her leash, and takes off down the central hallway. She seems to know exactly what she is looking for—the kitchen. I follow her, ignoring the bubbling and peeling floral wallpaper as I pass the spare room that was deemed Dr. Robert Cobb’s office. The door is closed, and I have no desire to go inside. It’s uncomfortable enough to be here in this part of the building. It’s like I’ve been left alone in a stranger’s home, and even though its smells, its settling creaks and moans, its chill, and its shadows spark many memories, I feel like a trespasser.

  The golden sits on the cracked tile floor in front of a purple Post-it note stuck to the refrigerator door. It’s from Mrs. Lewis. She’s too kind. Knowing I was arriving today, this woman I’ve never met warmed up the house, made my b
ed, and stocked the refrigerator with a few basic provisions. A few? I open the door and discover the fridge is full, packed with enough labeled Tupperware containers of precooked meals for a week.

  “I’m not sure you really need a last supper, but let’s see if I can find …”

  Am I talking to the dog? Of course not. I’m merely thinking aloud as I locate a can opener and an empty bowl. Frieda eats as you might expect, like she was headed for the electric chair.

  While the retriever makes a thorough inspection of the rest of the house I take a seat at the dining room table, its handcrafted oak surface obscured by a paperwork volcano overflowing with bills and statements and final notices. This flagrant disorganization is as physically unbearable as it is mind-boggling. Earlier in the day, I started to organize things into what’s been paid and what’s come due. So far, there’s nothing in the paid pile. Lewis told me Cobb had been sick for months, but he and I both know the fiscal and managerial neglect of this practice has been years in the making. Cobb may have been lauded as a great veterinarian, but he was a lousy businessman. So far everything is so overdue that accounts have been closed and lines of credit canceled. It looks like the practice has not been able to purchase or restock any basic medications for several months. The service contract for the X-ray equipment has not been renewed and the company will no longer supply radiographic films or chemicals. All unopened envelopes bearing the name Green State Bank in their top left-hand corner have been stockpiled to create a precarious tower.

  I rock forward and suddenly there’s fur underneath my right hand. Frieda is back. In less than an hour she’s already become a creature of habit. “And you’re not helping matters.” Okay, this time I admit it, I’m talking directly to the dog. She watches the words leave my lips, and though she cannot possibly understand me my mind provides her with a silent comeback: “And whose fault is that?”