The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel

by Nick Trout

  “Ever heard of a publicly owned company called Healthy Paws? They operate veterinary practices in thirty-six states?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Doc Lewis mentioned them to me. They’re the big practice across the valley and our nearest competitor. Doc Lewis sneered at the very mention of Healthy Paws, a practice obsessed with what he called conveyor belt medicine, where everyone complains they never see the same vet twice. No pet ever gets out of there without a shot or a blood test. Nickel-and-dime you as soon as you set foot in the place, his words not mine.”

  “Well, whatever the case, I ran some of your figures past one of their managers.” Critchley shakes his head in disgust. “In the past Healthy Paws would buy up pretty much any practice on its last legs, but in this economy, they are becoming increasingly risk averse. Bear this in mind when considering their offer.”

  He hands over another sheet of paper. Healthy Paws—for those on all fours. Hate that.

  My eyes flick through the details, reaching the bottom line before my mind actually registers the bottom line. “This can’t be right.”

  “That’s the offer.”

  “You’re telling me Healthy Paws will only buy the practice if I can prove my monthly production figures meet their definition of an ‘acceptable minimum.’ Otherwise there’s no deal.”

  “If it’s any consolation, they are prepared to take the average over several months.”

  “But I don’t have several months.” Or a license to practice in Vermont. Or a license to practice anywhere for that matter. “And this monthly production figure”—I slap it with the back of my hand—“is pretty much the same as the minimum monthly interest payment you want me to pay the bank. It can’t be done.”

  Critchley eases back in his chair, reaches into his briefcase one more time. It’s obvious everything is going according to plan.

  “That’s why I took the liberty of having an alternative proposal drawn up.”

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s the simplest solution, given your circumstances. The will places everything in your name and you sign everything over to the bank. We’d be more than happy to liquidate what assets remain in the practice together with the building and the associated land. It won’t nearly cover all of your father’s debt but at least you will be free and clear.”

  “You’re saying I’d get absolutely nothing, no money whatsoever.” “Correct. But think of it this way, you won’t be losing any of your own money either.”

  I get to my feet. I have a habit of pacing when I’m trying to think.

  “How long do I have to decide?”

  Critchley can barely conceal his glee.

  “I’m supposed to call Healthy Paws at nine this morning, let them know either way. Their deadline, not mine. That’s why I came over first thing.”

  I look past him to the bay window with the view of the shrunken backyard and the hiking trails behind the property. The snow’s crust sparkles in the low morning sunlight, but it’s the two trees in the foreground that have my attention. One is a mature apple tree, a Cortland, Mom’s favorite, and I still remember the day she and I planted it as a sapling. The other is a huge oak. For months I begged Robert Cobb to help me build a tree house in its branches. For months he made excuses. Eventually I stopped asking. I told Mom I’d discovered I was afraid of heights. We both knew the real reason—I didn’t have any friends to share it with.

  I raise an index finger, hoping for a few minutes to decide, striding back and forth between the fireplace and an empty windowed curio cabinet. The cabinet used to be home to a collection of Lenox china. Cobb must have sold it when the bills began to mount.

  There’s clawing at the kitchen door. Frieda sounds like an enormous and highly motivated rodent.

  “Dr. Mills?”

  This is ridiculous. Bedside Manor is supposed to be a windfall, a financial lifeline to professional vindication, not a shortcut to personal bankruptcy.

  Then I notice something faint etched onto the plaster wall, lost in the shadows next to the barren dresser. I take a step closer and see a series of short faded horizontal lines, seven or eight of them, one above the other, each scratchy pencil mark accompanied with a date, handwritten by my mother.

  “Dr. Mills?”

  The fog inside my head clears enough for me to hear Ruth Mills say, “Shoulders back, head straight. There you go. Almost two inches taller than last year.”

  “I must insist, Dr. Mills. I have other business to attend to.”

  I come back. “Let me get this straight,” I say to the man studying his watch. “If I turn this business back around, prove I can make their minimum monthly profit, Healthy Paws will buy it as a going concern.”

  “In theory, that’s correct.”

  “So, in theory, I can sell in the next thirty days.”

  “Yes, but as you said yourself, it’s impossible. If you want my opinion, I’d grab a few keepsakes, pack my bags, and head back to—”

  “Where do I sign?”

  Finally I appear to have taken Critchley off script.

  “Man has a choice,” I say, “and it’s a choice that makes him a man.”

  Critchley’s expression switches from incredulous to mystified.

  “It’s a quote. From East of Eden. Cal Trask, James Dean’s first big role.”

  The man from Green State appears none the wiser. Not that I care. I can convince myself that this has nothing to do with sentiment and everything to do with Critchley’s provocation. How dare he tell me what’s possible and what’s not. And besides, I really don’t have anything more to lose.

  “What makes you think you could do better than your father?” he asks.

  I’ve got nothing, no idea, but I’m determined to finagle some sort of a reply. “I’ll be using a completely different business model,” I say with unabashed confidence.

  “Really? Different how?”

  It’s obvious he’s humoring me.

  “For starters,” I say, “billing for services rendered has always been slack and tardy. Stuff gets overlooked and forgotten and bad debt ignored. As soon as I’ve worked my way through that lot I’ll have a better sense of where things have gone wrong and how I can put them right.”

  Critchley waits for more. “That’s it?” he says, looking pleased that his low expectations of me were correct. “You’ve never run a veterinary practice before, have you?”

  This is not a line of questioning I want him to pursue. I brace, but he changes course. “If I were in charge, I’d start making cuts right now.”

  I nod, say nothing.

  “For example, your health insurance costs are ridiculous.”

  “They are?”

  “Yes, they are. You have only two employees, and yet you offer one of the most expensive health care plans in the state.”

  Two employees? Other than Lewis, who else is on the payroll?

  “Choose a cheaper plan and you’ll save yourself some money right there.”

  Frieda lets loose with a sequence of booming barks that cause the kitchen door to reverberate. If Mr. Critchley does have other thoughts on the matter, he no longer wants to share them. He gets to his feet.

  “Dr. Mills, by refusing to sign over Bedside Manor to the bank this morning, whether or not you sell to a prospective buyer, your minimum monthly payment on your consolidated debt comes due thirty days from today. However, given the nature of this speculation, my boss will insist on some sort of a … good faith payment … long before that date. Let’s say twenty-five percent. Something to prove you’re on track. Something to prove we are not about to throw more good money after bad. You understand?”

  “When?”

  Critchley hesitates, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s making this up as he goes along.

  “End of business this week.”

  “But that’s only four days from now.”

  “Best I can do, given the circumstances.” He pulls out an imposing document, I presume a contract. “Y
ou don’t have to sign this. It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  I clear a little space on the table and my Green State Bank envelope tower comes crashing down. Critchley shakes his head, passes me the contract, and he’s about to hand over a pen when he catches himself.

  “Do you understand what you are doing? With the business transferred to your name, you become personally responsible for every bill and every angry creditor who demands their money. In essence, you will have to pay for the sins of your father.”

  Too late, I think. It’s one thing to go ignored by your father growing up, but the wrong he did to me when I lost my mother was his sin and I’ve already been paying these last fourteen years.

  “What do you say we make it Saturday, not Friday? Five days from now. You can’t deposit the money until Monday either way. Call it part of my new business model, expanding hours to include the weekend.”

  Critchley shakes his head. “You really think the extra day will make a difference?”

  “Definitely. Swing by on Saturday to pick up your check. I guarantee the folks from Healthy Paws will make me an offer in less than three weeks,” I say, trying but failing to sound confident as I sign on the dotted line.

  “Let’s hope so, Dr. Mills. Though I think you’re making a colossal mistake, I applaud your desire to keep your father’s legacy alive.”

  I finish the s in Mills with a flourish and look up.

  “Trust me, Mr. Critchley, this venture has nothing to do with him.” I stop short of adding “and everything to do with solving my legal troubles and getting back to an uncomplicated life.”

  I have time to catch the mischief in his eyes, a glint that says, you’re not fooling me, before Frieda begins to bark again—Critchley’s discomfort around dogs my only consolation.

  “Typhoon’s hungry,” I say. “He wants his breakfast.”

  Critchley snatches up the signed form and takes it with him rather than returning it to his briefcase.

  “See you at week’s end, Dr. Mills.”

  He’s already halfway out of the dining room, but he knows where I am headed.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Now if you don’t mind letting yourself out.”

  I time Frieda’s release to perfection—her body slams into the door at the top of stairs, right on his heels.

  4

  “See anything like this before?”

  The question feels like an accusation, hissing between the clenched dentures of a wizened old woman, one Mrs. Silverman, currently regarding me with unconcealed hostility. I’m grateful for the six-month-old husky by her side who ignores me altogether. His sudden focus on scratching off certain portions of his flesh has rendered me invisible. Virtually reptilian, the skin around the poor creature’s eyes, muzzle, ears, and feet has been replaced by thick and crusty scales that exude the aroma of fermenting yeast.

  “Doc Lewis has been trying to fix up Kai for months and I can already tell”—at this point Mrs. Silverman narrows her steely eyes and juts a hairy, powdery chin in my direction—“you’re no Doc Lewis. Or Doc Cobb for that matter.”

  She said, Doc Cobb, not “your father.” I can’t tell whether she’s being crafty or clueless. Either way, she’ll get no argument from me. Not counting last night’s failed attempt at Frieda’s euthanasia, it is now Kai who has the dubious honor of being my first clinical conundrum as a real veterinarian.

  “Well,” I say, “I’d like to give it a shot, if that’s okay, ma’am.”

  It’s hard to know whether she recoils from my “foreign” accent or me. Ridiculous. Live in the South for a while and even a die-hard Yankee will pick up a subtle lilt and an occasional drawl. My inflection has a hint of Rhett Butler at most. She acts like all she hears is pure hillbilly. Perhaps I should let her know I was born in nearby Burlington.

  Mrs. Silverman huffs as I come around the examination table to take a closer look at Kai. I notice how she avoids physical contact with him, as though feeling sorry for him does not entail actually touching him. Kai, it seems, is the leper who deserves a cure but until such time remains unsightly.

  Despite their appearance, Siberian huskies are not actually wolves. Wolves survived the Ice Age, whereas huskies only came to the States in the early twentieth century. Predatory menace has been traded for big periwinkle eyes reaching out to me, begging for a scratch. I look over at Mrs. Silverman—she’s acting hawkish, ready to attack my professional shortcomings. It seems I have no choice. I command my lips to smile, take a step forward, press my fingertips into the skin between his shoulder blades, and begin to scratch.

  It’s disgusting—greasy keratin, fungi, and all manner of secondary bacteria infesting my cuticles. Why didn’t I put on a pair of gloves? The only upside, and it’s minor, is Kai’s response—arching his spine into the contact, tail wagging, obviously thrilled by my manual exfoliation technique.

  As soon as I offered to see appointments last night, Lewis insisted on giving me a crash course in the art of a thorough physical examination. It’s like riding a bike, once you learn you never forget. The thing is I feel as though I am going through the motions, petting rather than palpating. I try my best to remember the highlights from Lewis’s lesson in bedside manner. When you’re listening to the chest with your stethoscope, be sure to let your eyes drift around the room like you’re concentrating. My attempt at rolling my eyes probably looks as though I’m about to faint. Nod every now and then, and don’t forget to smile. Owners like that sort of thing. Makes them think you can actually hear something. My nod is more of a spasm, my smile distinctly nervous, and the frown on Mrs. Silverman’s face suggests she is far from impressed.

  However, I do know that Kai likes when I scratch any crusty area of his skin because he melts and thanks me for the distraction and temporary relief. He dislikes, though, when I examine the cracked and ulcerated webs of his footpads, pulling away and showing me his teeth. Trouble is I can’t tell if he’s actually going to bite me or giving me fair warning. I’m totally out of practice interpreting the message in his coarse communication, and as a result, I’m hopelessly jumpy. I must look like I’m ready to run screaming from the room, jazz hands fluttering overhead.

  “Well?” says Mrs. Silverman.

  I make a show of the raised eyebrows and the stern countenance of someone who is clearly impressed and not someone who is clearly clueless. If you don’t know what to say or do, take a rectal temperature, it will give you a few extra minutes to think.

  “Let me take his temperature.”

  Thermometer in place, I consider the dog’s age.

  “Inherited diseases of the husky. What have I got? Hip dysplasia. Genetic eye diseases: juvenile cataracts, corneal dystrophy, and progressive retinal atrophy. These can occur with any eye color. Then there is …”

  “What are you mumbling on about?”

  Her question brings me back into the moment. The dog’s age has to be important, the distribution of lesions, and the fact that they involve very specific parts of the body. And that’s when a picture forms in my mind. As usual, I’ve jumped straight to a conclusion and a strange one at that. For some reason I see the black-and-white image of a child, eyes letterboxed for anonymity, from a textbook of, of all things, human skin disorders.

  “I’m assuming Doc Lewis ruled out the possibility of parasites?”

  I check Kai’s temperature—perfectly normal.

  Mrs. Silverman stares through me, offers her dog a pitying glance, and shakes her head.

  “Course he has,” she says, and under her breath I hear her add, “you damned fool.” My fingers begin to twitch, and Mrs. Silverman notices, forcing me to shove my hands under my armpits.

  “Look, if you ain’t seen nothing like it, speak up and we’ll be on our way. And don’t be thinking I’m paying for this visit. I’m only here out of loyalty to Doc Cobb and Doc Lewis. Just as easy for me to go to that fancy new practice in Patton. Bet they’d have the answer for me.”

  She makes a gra
b for Kai’s leash and gets out of her chair, surprisingly spry for her years. After my conversation with Mr. Critchley from Green State Bank and his insistence on a good faith payment, I can’t afford to lose a single client.

  And if you are totally clueless, try, “This thermometer must be broken. I’m going to grab a new one,” then head out back and try to look up what’s wrong.

  “No, please.” I snap, the desperation in my voice giving her pause. “If you could bear with me for one more minute, Mrs. Silverman.” I pat the air between us, hoping she will sit back down. “I think my thermometer might be broken. I’ll be right back.”

  I exit the examination room by a side door marked PRIVATE and enter the large work area containing a bank of cages, two dog runs, an old soapstone sink, and a wall of cabinets, counters, and drawers, home to pills, capsules, ointments, and syrups.

  “Ah, Cyrus, good morning. Decide what you’re going to do with that golden retriever of yours?”

  Fielding Lewis watches me over the rim of his coffee cup, leaning into the countertop, the Eden Falls Gazette spread out before him. Today’s bow tie has a New Orleans feel—purple, gold, and green fleurs-de-lys.

  “Not exactly,” I say, scanning the room for a hard drive or a monitor. “Has the man who brought her in been back to sign the paperwork?”

  Lewis shakes his head.

  “Someone recognized her last night when I took her for a walk.”

  “Really,” says Lewis. “Well, I’ve never seen her before. Maybe her vet’s in Patton?”

  “Maybe. What d’you think of me taking her to an adoption center? Or a retriever rescue group?”

  “Fine. Do it. Too bad you can’t use the ‘Wall of Fame.’ ”

  Lewis reads my confusion and explains. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the wall next to the front door? The one covered with dog photos?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s like a lasting tribute to all the dogs Bobby Cobb found homes for over the years. If someone came across a stray dog, if a dog needed to be adopted because its owner was relocating or lost a job or died, Cobb posted the pet’s picture on the wall. Made sure they found a good home. People even joked about him being the Patron Saint of Lost Dogs.”