The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel

by Nick Trout

  I look at her. I look at the pile of bills. It’s an easy call. “You want to go for a walk?”

  Despite a hint of a low-country accent infecting my vowels, a new round of excitement tells me Frieda picked up on the w word. We head to the hallway closet. I find her a decent collar and leash and borrow some winter attire, which I am thankfully unaccustomed to wearing—duck boots, a winter coat, and a plaid cap with faux fur earflaps.

  Having spent the better part of my life living well below the Mason-Dixon line, my expectation of winter means digging out a windbreaker and the possibility of a light frost. Stepping outside, I pine for the South. This cold is breathtaking. Lewis suggested I shave off my beard, saying, “Doctors shouldn’t look like Grizzly Adams, even in Vermont.” Now I wish I’d kept the facial hair. Someone has inserted tiny stiff frozen straws inside my nostrils, and I can feel the chill licking around my teeth and permeating bone. Did I mention how much snow they get up here? It’s only January and they’ve already cracked one hundred inches.

  It’s a cloudy moonless night, so I’m reluctant to enter the cross-country ski trails through the woodlands out back. This leaves us with two options. Turn left out of the practice lot or turn right. Left takes you toward the center of town, not necessarily a good thing when you’re walking a Lazarus dog. And I can’t risk running into Frieda’s mystery owner until I figure out what to do with her. So I turn right, toward the outskirts of suburban sprawl, Frieda intent on dislocating my shoulder.

  I’ve always been a fast walker. Hate to dawdle. If you need to get from A to B, why not do it as quickly and efficiently as possible. But here in Siberia I discover a problem. The sidewalks offer about as much grip as a slick bobsled run. In patches, hand-tossed salt has cut through to asphalt or concrete, but for the most part I’m inclined to shuffle along like an old man with a bad case of hemorrhoids. Frieda has other ideas. She appears to have nails like crampons, clawing at the ice, driving forward while I windmill and flail in order to keep up. “Easy, Frieda, easy.”

  Two things become apparent. Frieda is not used to being walked on a leash and Frieda is inordinately fussy about going to the bathroom. Although a number of telephone poles and lampposts require careful consideration, she drags me a good five hundred yards up the street before finding a spot she deems acceptable. I wonder if this has something to do with her urinary problems. Ignoring a glance that implores me to avert my eyes and respect her privacy, I pay attention for straining, urine flow, urine volume, and the presence of a “clean finish.” Her buildup and preparation may be more froufrou lapdog than hardy gundog, but as far as I can tell everything seems to be working just fine.

  “All done?” Damn, there I go again. Worse still, I repeat the question in a whisper, as though fewer decibels will make this one-sided conversation acceptable.

  Frieda scratches up a couple of icy stripes with her back paws, and to her dismay, I begin to head back in the direction we came. I’m not going to apologize—it’s so cold I’ve lost all sensation in my face, and that pile of paperwork isn’t going anywhere without me.

  About halfway back to the house I notice something in front of us twinkling in the darkness. Before long it’s become a concentrated spot of light, hovering, arcing back and forth, and then there’s a figure, a woman, swinging a flashlight with each step she takes, a stocky four-legged creature by her side.

  I turn up the collar on my winter coat, tug down on the brim of my hat, and rein in Frieda’s leash a little tighter. By the time I’ve realized that the woman’s disturbing Princess Leia haircut is actually a pair of bulky earmuffs, they are upon us, a black Labrador intent on saying hello. Like a novice water-skier behind a speedboat, the woman hangs on for dear life until the ice underfoot gets the better of her, the leash slips, and before I know it she is literally crashing into me.

  “I’m so sorry,” she exclaims, clutching me tightly. It’s as if an enormous leech has glommed onto my body. And then, shining the beam of her flashlight in my face, she says, “Well, well. Lucky me, saved by a knight in shining armor.”

  Though it’s hard to make out her features in the darkness, her tone of voice is distinctly frisky, and she’s still holding on to my arm as we turn our attention to our dogs.

  What’s with encounters between unfamiliar dogs? Skip the handshake, the small talk, they are straight into “you sniff my naughty bits and I’ll sniff yours.”

  “Now that’s what I call speed dating,” says the woman, leaning into me and uncomfortably eager to share her thoughts on the subject. “I’m Crystal, and the black Lab engaged in foreplay is—”

  “Um … nice to meet you,” I say, shucking myself from her grip as I try to pull Frieda away. “Come on … boy. We’ve got to get home.” Did I really say we?

  “At least tell me your name. You staying in Eden Falls?”

  “You might say that,” I say as I am walking away. “I’m”—I cough out the word—“Cyrus” as I wish her a good night, increasing my pace, eager to avoid any more inquiries. I don’t look back, and thanks to my faux fur earflaps, I can’t be sure, but I think I hear “Hey, that looks just like Frieda.”

  Everybody knows everybody in this town. But thankfully only 48 percent of eyewitnesses choose the right criminal.

  Most anywhere else Frieda and I could sneak into some cheap motel with a pair of scissors and a bottle of Just for Men and I’d clip and dye the golden retriever into another black Labrador. But this is Eden Falls, Vermont, population 2,053, and based on this brief encounter, an allegation of dog-napping may be the least of my worries. The residents of this tiny backwater have always been hungry for any drama that might titillate their quiet existence. For fourteen years I’ve moved on with a modest, simple life, content to let my past fade into a forgotten darkness I never intended to disturb. Bedside Manor insists I take a look back. It’s bad enough that I have to be here. It’s bad enough that in order to see my money I must act like a regular animal doctor. It’s bad enough that I’m working illegally on a suspended license from another state. But these concerns are nothing compared to the shameful truth lurking in my DNA. I have worked too hard to delete its existence, to get beyond the anger and disappointment, but now, back in Eden Falls, curious minds are poised to scrutinize me, expose me, and worst of all, make me accountable for who I really am—the only son of Dr. Robert Cobb.

  3

  At precisely eight o’clock the next morning I hear the after-hours doorbell—old-fashioned, shrill, and insistent—ringing in the second-floor hallway. I suppose it could be my first customer of the day. Then again, it could be Mr. Charcoal Suit, here to sign his consent form and pay off his bill for services I have totally failed to render.

  I find Frieda lying down in front of the refrigerator. Perhaps by worshiping this appliance she thinks she will be rewarded with a tasty morsel trapped within.

  The bell ringing intensifies from intermittent Morse code to a continuous electric trill. It seems the person pressing the doorbell will not be denied. This cannot be good. I lock the dog in the kitchen ( just in case) and race downstairs to the front door.

  “Can I help you?”

  There’s a tall thin gentleman in a suit and tie and a long cashmere coat clutching a leather briefcase, standing on the stoop. “Dr. Mills?”

  The voice is familiar.

  “Yes, I’m Dr. Mills.”

  The man allows a hint of relief to taint his stern expression.

  “Mr. Critchley. Green State Bank. You stopped answering my e-mails and phone calls.”

  His tone is clipped, and he makes no attempt to shake my hand, as though he’s only here to state facts.

  “There’s been some … developments … concerning your father’s will. I thought it prudent to meet with you, face-to-face. There are still papers to be signed, details to clarify. I trust my timing is not too inconvenient.”

  His words hang in cartoon bubbles of frosty condensation. Oh yes, the last will and testament of one Dr. Robert Cobb
, which arrived at my Charleston apartment ten days ago. Let’s be honest, in the twenty-first century, it’s strange to learn of your father’s death by tearing open a real paper envelope. Sure, it was a shock, but our relationship was, to put it politely, problematic. Still, where the discovery of my mother’s passing sucked all the air from my chest, the loss of Bobby Cobb did fill me with a certain sense of regret. Snail mail had taken a while to find me, and though the circumstances were totally different, for the second time in my life, I had missed burying a parent.

  The details of the will are quite straightforward. Cobb has left me Bedside Manor, the property and the business. And, despite the somber circumstances, the timing was fortuitous. Without my license to practice, I can’t get another job in South Carolina or anywhere else for that matter. In order to get my license reinstated, to defend my actions, prove my innocence, and restore my professional reputation, I need money for legal fees. I’d already blown through the contents of my 401K and was forced to sell my condo and move into a rental, so when Bedside Manor fell into my lap, there was nothing to think about—sell the building, sell the practice, take the money, and run back to Charleston as fast as I can, where I can resolve my license issues, clear my name, and start over.

  “No, come in,” I say and lead him upstairs to the dining room and my unsightly pile of paperwork. “Sorry, but I don’t seem to be able to get Internet service up here.” I pull out my cell phone, flip it open—dead. I offer up an apologetic smile, flash him the blank screen. “Forgot to charge it again.”

  The bank’s attorney ignores my excuses. He’s focused on my Green State Bank envelope tower.

  “It’s … well … a little overwhelming,” I say, trying to ignore the contempt mounting in his twitching lips. “Please, have a seat.”

  Critchley is a gangly praying mantis of a man, all pointy knees and elbows as he tries to cross his legs and get comfortable. He keeps his coat wrapped tightly around him as he sits, as if he wants to insulate himself from this contagious fiscal irresponsibility.

  Frieda lets out a wary bark, begins to scratch, and Critchley turns toward the closed kitchen door.

  “It’s only the dog,” I say.

  “What kind of a dog?”

  Critchley places his briefcase on his lap, somewhat defensively. I wonder if he’s had a previous run-in with a canine in his job as a well-dressed repo man. After my close call with the owner of the black Labrador last night, best to be misleading with the truth.

  “Rottweiler.” I might have stopped there, but I’ve been dealing with snooty lawyers for months and his uppity attitude gets to me. “One hundred and forty pounds of pure steel. Hates strangers, but old … Typhoon … will be fine so long as he doesn’t catch a whiff of fear. And hopefully that kitchen door will hold up. You have dogs of your own, Mr. Critchley?”

  Critchley shakes his head. I can tell I’ve unnerved him. He pops the latch on his briefcase and lets me stew in silent discomfort before making a show of removing a single piece of paper. His features tend toward gaunt rather than chiseled and he sports a haircut cropped to near military specifications. It suits his take-no-prisoners coldness.

  “Before I get to the will proper, I thought it might be helpful to see, in actual dollars and cents, the enormity of the challenge that lies before you. This document summarizes the various liens against both this property and the veterinary business operated by the late Dr. Robert Cobb, the … Bedside Manor for Sick Animals?” He pretends to have difficulty focusing on the words.

  I shrug. “It’s a long story.”

  But Critchley eases back in his chair, like he’s got all the time in the world.

  I force a little laugh through my nose. “It’s stupid,” I say, willing him to read my discomfort as I try to fold into myself.

  “Now I’m curious.”

  I find that imaginary itch at the back of my head. Body language accounts for between 50 and 70 percent of all communication. Clearly, for Mr. Critchley, it may as well be Mandarin.

  “This house was originally going to be called Benton Manor after Jack Benton, the guy who wanted it built as his Vermont retreat. It was never completed.”

  “Jack Benton, as in Benton Copper and Gold Incorporated, the mining company?”

  I nod. “According to my mother, Benton had elaborate homes across the country, but he was a fanatical leaf-peeper, came up here every fall, always brought his Labradors. Inevitably his dogs needed a vet.”

  At this point I half expect Critchley to interject “Dr. Robert Cobb,” but the attorney says nothing. It seems I must continue.

  “This was back when Cobb had graduated from veterinary school. He was in debt, renting an apartment, and trying to earn a living making house calls. He and Benton hit it off . Benton gets sick, cuts back on his travels, decides to give the property away.”

  “For free?”

  “Not quite. He insisted it be used as a veterinary clinic and be named Bedside Manor.”

  Critchley appears more pained than confused.

  “That’s ridiculous. Nobody gives away substantial equity like this without ensuring recognition for the name of the donor at the very least.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. All I know is, before he died, Jack Benton already had a library, an oncology wing at Johns Hopkins, a regional airport, and a highway named after him. Apparently he didn’t want a veterinary hospital.”

  Critchley appears to mull this over.

  “I’ve no pets of my own, but I’ve heard from several reliable sources that your late father was a well-loved member of the community and had quite a gift for communication.”

  Though I manage a curt smile, I’m amazed at how much it hurts to hear this compliment, even after all these years. It spotlights one of the saddest keepsakes of my childhood. Sure, Cobb had a knack for mixing charm and compassion, no doubt about it, but at what price? If you’re always there for your patients, how can you be there for your son? It smarts to hear Critchley’s praise, like bumping an old bruise that’s refused to fade away. Growing up I would have killed for a father with a gift for communication with me.

  “Yeah, well it’s complicated,” I say instead of what I’m thinking.

  Thankfully, Critchley appears no more interested in hearing about said complications than I am willing to share. “Before I go any further, Dr. Mills,” he stresses my last name, “I need to see official proof of your relationship with the deceased?”

  I reach into my wallet, pull out my South Carolina driver’s license, and hand it over. Then I pick up the FedEx package on the table next to the envelope tower. Inside, together with my copy of the will, there’s my birth certificate, and a notarized copy of the court order approving the change in my last name.

  He scrutinizes everything, going all TSA on me. He takes his time with the birth certificate. “Mills was your late mother’s maiden name? Ruth Mills?”

  “Correct,” I say, stamping a little authority on the word in the hopes that I will shut him down before he asks the obvious question about the name change—why?

  Thankfully Critchley makes no further comment, returns the proof, and hands over his summary. “As you can see, at the time of his death Dr. Cobb owed money to virtually every company with which he did business, from purveyors of pet food through to disposal of biohazardous material. I’ve listed the dollar amount for each, and the total is at the bottom of the page.”

  “I’m led to believe Cobb was quite ill for the last few months of his life.”

  Critchley hesitates but doesn’t blink an eye. “Not my problem.”

  But the way he looks at me makes me feel like he’s also saying, and clearly not your problem, either.

  “Dr. Cobb did apply for a second mortgage on this property,” he says.

  “A second mortgage? But this house was a gift. When did he get his first mortgage?”

  “About twenty years ago. Not sure how it got approved. Probably back when he was filing joint tax returns with
your late mother.”

  Mom worked from home. As I said, she was a veterinary pathologist like me. Stained slides of diseased tissue arrived in the post in the morning, were read under a microscope, and a written report was sent out in the afternoon mail.

  “Naturally this second mortgage application was denied. We did, however, offer to consolidate his debt, at, I might add, an extremely competitive and reasonable rate of interest.”

  With this he hands over a second sheet of paper. I see the figure the bank requires the practice to pay off on a monthly basis. The neon pink highlight only makes the number seem even more ridiculous.

  “You sure this is correct? From what I’ve seen of the books, the practice hasn’t come close to ever making that kind of a minimum monthly interest payment.”

  “Again, Dr. Mills, not my problem.”

  Sensing Critchley’s eyes upon me as I scan the numbers, I look up. He may not be gloating but I can tell he’s enjoying himself.

  “That brings me to the will.” He pauses for effect. “I regret to inform you that the original offer to buy the practice has been withdrawn.”

  I feel like there’s a trapdoor where my diaphragm used to be. It flies open and my heart drops through.

  “What?”

  “As we previously discussed, the buyer always had reservations based on the practice barely sustaining even a part-time veterinarian in Dr. Cobb’s associate, Dr. Lewis.”

  “Yes, but you said if I plug the holes in the schedule, fill in the gaps, demonstrate there’s enough business for one full-time vet, the sale shouldn’t be a problem. You made it sound like it was a done deal. You even promised it would take no more than two weeks to go through.”

  Critchley remains impassive, gently pushing his open palm in my direction, ordering me to stop.

  “I have, however, secured an alternative buyer.”

  Any rush of relief is tempered by my irritation at the way he is dragging this out and a sense that he is still holding something back.