The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel

by Nick Trout

  “Thank you,” I mumble as Mrs. Crystal Haggerty disappears, wondering if I’m destined to become the love slave of this frustrated urban housewife in order to buy her silence.

  I’m ready to pry another file from Doris’s boney claw. “Who’s next and what was with that note?”

  “Sorry,” says Doris, under her breath. “I thought it was obvious, like a hotel rating system, you know, one star means a dump, five stars means a palace. So, one dollar means a tightwad who never pays on time, and five will mean loaded to the gills with money to blow. D’you want me to write this down for you?”

  “No, I get it. I’ll just take the next file.”

  She hands over a folder as thick as the yellow pages phone directory.

  “Here, this belongs to Clint, Harry Carp’s dog. The fax with her blood results arrived this morning. I thought you might want to give him a call.”

  Hum, that was a pretty fast turnaround, and Doris is right, I’d forgotten all about poor Clint.

  I flick through the file and can’t find the new paperwork. “Where is it?”

  “Where it always is, out back next to the microscope.”

  And to think, I almost believed Doris was being helpful.

  I discover the fax machine perched on a counter next to a microscope. There’s a note on the counter, carefully laminated and securely taped near the microscope: USE OIL FOR HIGH POWER LENS ONLY! Mom’s handiwork again, the absence of please duly noted. Hard to believe Cobb kept these reminders of my mother around, but I’m glad he did. They feel like an oasis in a desert of discord, a touchstone to order and discipline.

  Lying in the fax machine’s tray I find a single sheet of paper, the blood results for an older model mixed-breed dog named Clint Carp. The data is divided into columns: a long list of everything that’s been tested, their absolute values, and the upper and lower limits of a normal range for each value. It’s a hieroglyphic mix of numbers and enzymes and ions and cell types but, with a vivid recollection of the dog’s owner, Harry, I feel compelled to take my time and work on the translation.

  Neutrophilic leukocytosis

  Hidden in the secret language on the page, all I can say for sure is that Clint has a mild increase in the number of some of her white blood cells. There are too many to blame it on the stress of having your blood drawn by a clumsy novice. There are too few to conclude that Clint is battling some sort of an infection. In short, Clint’s blood work results are totally nonspecific and inconclusive.

  I find Harry’s number in the file and dial. He picks up after the tenth ring. I introduce myself, give him a chance to catch his breath, and tell him about the blood results.

  “Could it be cancer?”

  “Maybe, but not necessarily,” I say. “Neutrophils are a specific lineage of white blood cells, indicative of …” My words trail off as I catch myself. For me, there’s always been security, a comforting precision, to be found in medical jargon, but right now, for the first time in my career, I appreciate how it’s the last thing Harry needs to hear. Having met him, knowing exactly where he is standing in his home, pained expression on his face, odd little creature by his side, I’m struck by a sudden urge to give this dying old man something more meaningful than dumbing down the details. No hedging, no waffling, just a simple “yes” or “no” answer. Harry’s quavering voice makes something inside me loosen and break free, something totally irrational and, quite possibly, reckless.

  “No,” I hear myself say, with absolutely no scientific justification whatsoever. “No, Harry, Clint does not have cancer.”

  What’s come over me? Can this be a lie if there’s no malicious intent? But I’m giving him an answer where one does not exist.

  A sigh of relief whistles down the phone line, and I have to say, it makes my distortion of the truth much more palatable. There’s no point in trying to sort out Clint’s illness with her owner dying of worry. If I’m wrong, and, to be honest, I still may be, I’ll have to face the music when the time comes.

  “That’s good to know, but what else can it be?”

  That wasn’t much of a reprieve.

  “Sorry, Harry, I’m still not sure. How’s she doing today?”

  Another sigh, and I pick up on the subtle distinction between relief and disappointment.

  “Same as before. Nibbling at her food, but she’s drinking fine.”

  Ah, the frustration of “ain’t doin’ right.”

  “I’ll ask Doc Lewis if he can drop by and take a look at her,” I say. “Better still, you might want to bring her here to Bedside Manor.”

  There’s a silence on the line. “I’ll see if I can get a ride. To be honest, I feel a whole lot better knowing she doesn’t have cancer. Thanks, Doc.”

  Somehow I can’t bring myself to say, me too.

  10

  The waiting room is down to its last two cases: a guy in an army surplus camouflage jacket clutching his albino rabbit and a middle-aged woman sitting next to a younger man with a fancy cat carrier.

  I approach Her Majesty and whisper, “Who’s next?”

  Doris says nothing but slides the file (another monster) across the counter toward me, a yellow fingernail tapping a yellow Post-it note on the cover. I look to see what she’s pointing to: $$$$$$.

  “Six,” I mouth, conscious of my own wide-eyed excitement. Cha-ching!

  Her nod is almost imperceptible as she peels off the note and scrunches it inside her palm.

  “Chelsea,” I call, twirling around as the young man and the woman get to their feet. I doubt he’s made it into his thirties. I doubt she’s still in her fifties. Has to be mother and son. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am to keep you waiting Ms….”

  “Weidmeyer, Virginia Weidmeyer, but please, call me Ginny.” She reaches forward to shake my hand. “And this is Steven.”

  Steven gives me a snappy little chin jerk, which, to my way of thinking, only serves to exaggerate the age difference between them. Thank goodness he spared me the “wassup.” He wears a long, matte black leather coat over a denim shirt, blue jeans with creases, and shiny cowboy boots. Perhaps he thought the dead cow afforded his Canadian tuxedo a touch of class. I find the look a little contrived, as if he hopes people will ask whether he is on his way to or from a Matrix convention.

  “Very nice to meet you both, I’m Doctor—”

  “I know who you are, Cyrus,” says Ginny. “Your father was a dear friend. I’m so sorry.”

  I’ve stopped breathing. There might be drool hanging from the corner of my mouth. This woman must know all about me and my estrangement from Cobb yet she’s not spitting in my face or lunging for my jugular.

  “Thank you,” I manage to mumble, though it feels all wrong. I affect a tickle in my throat. Get back on track. “So, this must be Chelsea.”

  Ginny gasps, lays a splayed palm across her chest, as if she’s committed a mortal sin. “Forgive me, yes, this is the love of my life, Chelsea.”

  Steven raises the carrier in his hand in the manner of someone raising a toast with a glass full of beer. The feline must be in hiding at the back.

  “Ginny, back so soon?”

  Lewis is guiding his second-to-last clients in the direction of Doris—good man. He and Ginny exchange a peck as Steven looks on.

  “Wanted Chelsea to meet her new vet.”

  “Well then, you’d best take my exam room. I’m sure Malcolm and Mr. Snuffles will be more than happy to hop on back, right Malcolm?”

  “Actually, Lewis, I was hoping we might have a quick word in—”

  “No time, Dr. Mills. These patients have been patient for far too long. Please.” He holds the examination door open, gestures for us to enter, and it seems we have no choice.

  Steven deposits the carrier on the floor, takes a seat, and starts messing with his watch. I’m not sure whether he wants me to get a move on or to notice it’s a TAG Heuer. Ginny stands by the exam table.

  “I should explain the situation,” she says. “We’re lo
ngtime clients of your father.”

  I try not to wince.

  “He’s been treating her kidney disease forever. Isn’t that right, baby? Steven, be a love. Chelsea needs to say hello to the nice doctor.”

  On a sigh Steven gets out of his chair, squats down, pops the latch on the little plastic gate, and reaches a hand inside. There’s an ungodly growl, an otherworldly hiss, and Steven quickly changes his mind, lifting up the back end of the carrier, angling it upward, attempting to “pour” the cat onto the floor. Chelsea may not have great kidneys, but with her crib tilted at ninety degrees, she clearly retains the power to defy gravity.

  “Not like that. Here, let me.”

  If these two are an item, this scolding sounds totally wrong. Steven shrugs his shoulders, mumbles something about not being much of a cat person, and returns to his seat, unfazed. He seems quite content to look on, stroking his neat goatee like he’s checking that it’s still there.

  Ginny picks up the carrier, places it on the examination table, and this time there are no complaints as she extracts an orange, flat-faced, long-haired cat. My mind should be brainstorming feline kidney disease but it’s hit the “pause” button. I’ve gone totally blank on Chelsea’s breed.

  “We’re hoping you share the same treatment philosophy as your father.”

  Is she asking me a question? And how do I stop her from using that word?

  “Weekly examinations. Regular checkups on her urine. Careful monitoring for dehydration.”

  Persian. The name of the breed is Persian. Originated in Iran. Known for polycystic kidney disease, an inherited disorder. These particular cats are born with abnormal kidneys, but most don’t show clinical signs until three to ten years of age.

  It takes me a while to realize Ginny’s staring at me, as though I might have succumbed to a narcoleptic event. Was I talking to myself again? “Sorry, yes,” I say. “Certainly. Happy to.” I run a hand over Chelsea’s back and feel the greasy, clumpy fur and boney skeleton of a creature fighting a chronic, relentless disease.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard this before, Doctor, but Chelsea is the best cat in the world. Sorry, I should have asked if you prefer Dr. Mills, or can I call you Cyrus?”

  Is this a test? Is she actually questioning my family loyalty?

  “Um … Cyrus … and I don’t doubt it … about her being the best cat in the world.”

  “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. Nothing. Isn’t that right, Steven?”

  Steven’s not listening, still playing with his watch, and once again Ginny waits for a response from me. What does she want me to say? Something philosophical? Something reassuring? I tip my head back, open my mouth, and inhale, desperate to impart some sort of personal, eloquent wisdom. But I’ve got nothing. Seconds pass, trapped in mute moronic limbo, trustworthy veterinarian transformed into village idiot. In the end I do the only thing that comes to mind. I pick up Chelsea and hug her to my chest.

  To my amazement Ginny beams, as though this is exactly what she’d hoped for, and joins me, running her hand down her beloved cat’s body. Botox may have limited her ability to express alarm, and yes, she’s a little too tight in the wrong places, but her lips can still tremble. This is no act.

  Then I notice the left hand that strokes the cat, not the wrinkles—the part of the aging process her cosmetic surgeon cannot hide—but the enormous sparkling rock on the fourth finger. “That’s a beautiful ring.”

  At this Steven is all ears, rocking in his seat, and making a show of interlocking his fingers in his lap. He seems to be accustomed to taking the credit.

  “Thank you,” says Ginny. “Three carats.”

  “Three point two,” Steven says. “Picked it up in New York. Friend in Midtown gave me a deal. Before Vermont I lived in Manhattan.”

  “I beg your pardon, three point two.”

  She overplays the demure shoulder shrug. “Steven surprised me with it, what, couple of months ago. Feels funny, being a fiancée at my age.”

  This comment actually gets Steven on his feet, placing an arm around Ginny’s hip and giving her a disconcerting pat on her derriere. “You’re as old as you feel, right, Doc?”

  Ginny offers him a playful punch on the arm, and Steven feigns mock pain. Chelsea and I look on. I believe we are unified in our revulsion.

  “So,” I say, eager to move on. “Chelsea gets her blood tested, urine tested, anything else?”

  “X-rays. Doc Cobb was worried about kidney stones.”

  Most common types of stone: cystine, oxalate, urate, and struvite. “Really. When was the last time she had an X-ray?”

  Ginny consults with her boy toy.

  “Couple of weeks before he died,” says Steven. Ginny seems to concur. “She won’t sit still. I always have to hold her.”

  I’ve noticed a couple of wide shelves in the work area, home to large manila envelopes, presumably the clinic’s collection of pet X-rays. This feels like an opportunity to finally catch Lewis. “Mind if I track them down? Give me an idea of what’s going on.”

  “Be our guest,” says Steven. “Take your time.” He winks at me. I don’t want to imagine what he hopes to get up to in my absence.

  Lewis, grappling with a fluffy white object, seems to be making a conscious effort not to catch my eye as I rifle the shelf of X-rays and find the appropriate folder. It’s thick and heavy and the films date back over many months. No question, Ginny Weidmeyer is worried about Chelsea, but, more importantly for Bedside Manor, she’s game to spend some serious money on her cat. I wonder if I can continue to make that happen before the end of the week?

  There’s a viewing box on the wall. I switch it on and begin looking at films in chronological order. It’s been a while since I tried to read an X-ray and, unlike Lewis’s previous synopsis, it’s nothing like riding a bike.

  When I put up the final image, taken eleven days before the death of Robert Cobb, I see it, a tiny kidney stone.

  I could take a little more time, review a medical textbook, get my questions and facts straight before I go back in, but already my eyes have focused on a totally different area of the X-ray film. I can make out a series of small bones that should not be there—human bones, Ginny’s hand, exposed to radiation from restraining her fidgety cat. And the ring, the diamond in its gold setting, is totally white and opaque on the film. How can that be?

  Once again another stupid factoid has lodged in my mind: diamond is a cubic lattice structure of one atom, carbon. Diamond will not show up on an X-ray. I should see a black, empty setting. But Ginny’s three-carat—sorry, three-point-two-carat—rock is white and opaque. Either Steven was duped when he purchased the ring or, unwittingly, this little cat with a kidney stone has just unmasked lover-boy Steven as a fraud.

  No wonder Lewis’s appointments last so long. Will the man ever stop talking? I’ve been finished with Ginny for nearly twenty minutes. I promised to review Chelsea’s entire record and evaluate “Dr. Cobb’s” treatment plan (I hope she noticed how I referred to him) regarding the kidney stone, before getting back to her. Naturally I said nothing about the fake engagement ring. Intriguing as it is, it’s none of my business.

  The chime of the shopkeeper’s doorbell is my cue to pounce. “Finally. Can we talk?” I gesture for Lewis to join me in the work area rather than add, “in private,” in front of Doris.

  “Didn’t believe it ’til I came in this morning.” A jovial Lewis strolls past me, and I close the door behind him. Why is he acting chipper and congratulatory? And that crimson bow tie with white polka dots is not helping matters. He nods at the cage that’s home to Tina and her kitten. “Only way to pry that young girl off her cat was if she had her baby. And that means the rumors about the gifted Dr. Mills must be true.”

  He steps in and puts an arm around my shoulder like a proud parent, obviously unable to read my irritation. After a restless two hours of sleep, I had stumbled downstairs, intending to tell Lewis about the mysterious newspaper article an
d confront him over leaving me in the lurch last night. This development with the media has changed my focus. Where to begin?

  “Take a look at these.”

  Lewis pauses as I pass what feels like a handful of warrants for my arrest, regarding me with more optimism than concern, a convivial “how bad could it possibly be” expression. Then he begins to read, and the more he reads, the more his blithe confidence melts away. With it goes my need to terrorize him for the truth about his ailing wife.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask. “The last thing I need are reporters asking questions about a veterinarian who thinks he’s an obstetrician. If they’re curious, they’ll dig, and if they dig, they’ll find my suspended license and as soon as they do, it’s over. If I can’t work, I can’t turn this practice around, and if I can’t sell it as a going concern, I can’t get back.”

  Suddenly Lewis seems filled with sadness, and I can’t tell whether it is aimed at me or leaking from him. “Get back to what?”

  A minute ago I might have jumped all over him with an emphatic “the private and dispassionate life of a veterinary pathologist, of course.” But sensing this change in him, I soften my reply to something I hope he will appreciate. “What I do best.”

  Lewis keeps his head down, lips pursed, and nods. Was it something he read or something I said?

  “You never came right out and said you wanted to sell the practice. I had hoped you were making a new start for yourself. I mean you’ve only just got here.”

  I frown. “It’s not as though I have a choice. I’m out of money. I’ve got bills to pay, serious legal fees, and no one was going to hire me without a license to practice. Bedside Manor found me, and for that I will be eternally grateful, but it was always a means to an end. Thing is, if I don’t make a significant first payment in three days’ time the bank will step in and I’ll lose everything.”

  “How much are we talking?”

  I tell him the dollar amount. Lewis appears stunned, as if I as good as handed him his pink slip. Critchley’s opening fee should be labeled “heartbreaking disbelief,” not good faith.