The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel

by Nick Trout

Greer follows me into the back, where I set up a makeshift bed on a counter. Toby is barely responsive to my examination. I take his rectal temperature and he doesn’t lift a lip, let alone his head.

  “One hundred six point two degrees Fahrenheit,” I say. Irreversible cell damage starts to occur at 108 degrees Fahrenheit. “He’s burning up.”

  “So he’s been poisoned. I knew it. That old bastard Sam Cartwright’s always threatening to kill him.”

  I reach for an intravenous catheter, a bag of fluids, and an extension set. “We need to get Toby cooled off before jumping to conclusions, Mr. Greer. Here, help me find a decent vein.”

  Though well intentioned, the big Limey proves to be an inept assistant. The nervous tremble in my hands is barely perceptible compared to the seismic shaking of Greer’s. Thankfully, quite possibly for the first time in his life, Toby could not be more malleable, impervious to the curses and rants of his irate master.

  “Okay. Now I need you to take a couple of those towels, run them in cold water, wring them dry, and wrap them around his body.”

  Greer does as he is told while I grab some ice cubes from the refrigerator, put them in a bowl, and run the plastic tubing through them so the fluid entering Toby’s blood will be nicely chilled. I think of giving Greer a white wine analogy but decide against it.

  Five minutes later I take another temperature. “One hundred four point eight. Much better. But we’re going to have to watch this very closely. Don’t want him going the other way and getting too cold.”

  Greer seems elsewhere. “I knew something was wrong when he didn’t bark this morning.”

  Once again I replay the conversation I overheard on my first night in the diner, Sam saying, “Rat bait might not be such a bad idea.” Was that round of barking when I visited Greer last night the final straw? Did Sam drop by this morning with an all-you-can-eat d-CON breakfast special for Toby?

  “Toby normally barks in the morning, right?”

  “He’s like an alarm clock. I can usually turn over, press an imaginary snooze button inside my head, and fall back to sleep but eventually I have to get up and fix his breakfast. The fact that he wasn’t barking this morning was why I woke up.”

  I think about how familiar this sounds. “The curious incident of the dog in the night-time.”

  Greer smiles for the first time, and I notice the cracked remnants of last night’s red wine still clinging to his dry lips. “Very good, Dr. Mills. I might have known you’d be a Sherlock Holmes fan.”

  “Prefer the Sherlock Holmes movies. Especially the ones starring Basil Rathbone. But I did read that one, back when I was a boy.” Once again, Ruth Mills trying to nurture a deductive mind.

  “Then you’ll remember how the dog knew the killer. That was why he didn’t bark. That was why Holmes found it curious. And that’s what makes no sense.”

  “Not sure I’m with you.”

  “Because Toby knows Sam Cartwright well enough to bark and bite and maim.”

  Now I see it. If Toby lunged at the old man’s jugular, it’s likely he did so screaming a battle cry. Then again, at Greer’s house, I also witnessed the terrier’s silent stealth. I’m not sure this observation, this absence of barking, is relevant, so I put it aside for now.

  “When was the last time you saw Toby acting fine?”

  “Bedtime. I must have passed out around midnight.”

  That was well after I left and plenty of time for Greer to gather more incriminating evidence from my past. “Look, leave him with me. I’ll cool him off, and as soon as he comes round I’ll make him vomit to empty his stomach. See if he’s eaten something he shouldn’t. Anything changes I’ll call. On your cell?”

  Greer nods, and together we get Toby settled in one of the dog runs. I lead the reporter out to the waiting room, and once again it’s far from empty. For starters, Doris is actually behind her desk and a stern-looking Chief Matt Devito is striding toward me. However, it’s the couple—a woman and a dog—over the Chief’s shoulder that claims most of my attention because they make no sense being together. Clint is lying on the floor, her head outstretched, resting on her crossed paws, eyes closed. And to my amazement, on the end of her leash, sitting in a chair, is, of all people, Amy.

  15

  Amy’s hair is all wrong and all right at the same time. No longer constrained by the requisites of food hygiene, she wears it down, perfectly framing her face.

  “Dr. Mills.” The Chief offers me his hand to shake. Looks like the dodgeball bully still hasn’t recognized me. “Mr. Greer tells me his dog’s been poisoned.”

  I turn to the reporter.

  “I called the Chief on the way over. I had to. One can’t go trying to kill other people’s dogs.”

  Though I feel Doris’s raptor eyes on me, I’m acutely aware that Amy appears to be hanging on what I am about to say.

  “I don’t know that the dog’s been poisoned. Not yet.”

  Greer snorts. “Can’t you do some sort of test?”

  “A toxicology screen.” Devito takes care to insert the phrase as a formal, almost professional, clarification, and I begin to wonder if the Chief wants to impress a certain member of the audience. Amy’s in my line of sight, not his, and he doesn’t notice as she rolls her eyeballs and shakes her head, unimpressed by his enduring appreciation of CSI and Law & Order reruns.

  “I could,” I say, though in truth, I don’t know the answer. “But for now, I believe our focus should be on saving the dog’s life, not trying to blame someone for trying to take it.”

  Amy looks directly at me, makes me suffer for at least five seconds, and then, just when I’ve given up, she concedes the faintest of smiles.

  “We’ll see which way the clinical signs progress. Everything will depend on how Toby responds to my treatment over the next few hours.” I look at Greer. “Check out your basement, backyard, garage, under your kitchen sink, anywhere Toby might have gotten into something he shouldn’t. If you come up empty-handed, and everything begins to trend to rat poisoning, only then would I start pointing fingers.”

  Devito looks like I have pulled the rug out from under him, thwarting his big investigation. Greer’s distinctive bushy brows oscillate above his bloodshot eyes somewhere between objection and compliance.

  “Now, if you don’t mind, I should be attending to my patient.”

  Greer sides with this concession, shakes my hand, and insists I call if there are any developments.

  The Chief leans in, his breath minty fresh. I wouldn’t expect anything less.

  “All the same, I think I’ll have a chat with Sam.” And then, raising a solitary eyebrow, he adds, “See if he cracks.”

  I wonder how often Chief Matt yearns to say “freeze” or “cover me, I’m going in,” only to be deprived by the law-abiding affability of his jurisdiction. Who am I to deny him the thrill of an interrogation?

  Offering him a weak smile of encouragement, I notice Amy getting to her feet as, reluctantly, so does Clint. The Chief catches my eye, glances at Amy, and turns back to me. “Keep me posted.”

  This comes out as an order. I nod accordingly, wait a beat until he heads for the door, and take a step toward Amy and Clint. “I barely recognized you.”

  Amy feigns shock. “With my clothes on you mean.”

  She says this loud enough to stop Chief Matt in his tracks as he passes the front desk, loud enough to induce a coughing fit in Doris. My face turns crimson and my ears burst into flames.

  “Uh, no … not …”—heat continues to radiate from my cheeks—“with your hair down.” I want to slow down my words and crank up the volume for the benefit of the peanut gallery. “Out of uniform.”

  She’s enjoying this.

  “And what are you doing with Harry Carp’s dog?”

  Amy moves closer, and Doris and the Chief fade away as I take in the symmetry of her face, not counting the color of her eyes. “Harry Carp is my grandfather.”

  She lets this statement hang there,
lets it sink in, knowing how far down this important kernel of information has to go before it settles in the right place. I’m flashing back to last night at the diner, to the way everything came out wrong, arrogant and dismissive, insisting she was wasting her life and her talents when all along she is doing the right thing, doing the hard thing, putting her life on hold for the sake of someone she loves. Now it makes sense. Amy is the one who made the mysterious tire tracks in Harry’s driveway. Amy is the one bringing him dinner, the one taking Clint for a walk. Amy is Harry Carp’s angel.

  “Why didn’t you say?”

  “Should it have made a difference?”

  I don’t know whether the question or the look in her eyes stings the most. “No. It shouldn’t,” I manage, but Amy’s feeling generous.

  “Look, about last night. Your private life’s none of my business. I was just venting.” She runs a hand through her hair, locks a loose strand behind her ear. “School’s pressuring me about when I’m coming back, going on about taking up valuable space in their course, as if I’m supposed to predict how long my grandfather’s got left to live.” I can see how the act of saying this out loud upsets her almost to the point of tears. “I was snippy and antagonistic. I took it out on you, and I’m sorry. I’m hoping we can start over. I’m here because Grandpa said you needed to see his dog.”

  Part of me doesn’t want to get off that easy. “I’ve been trained to make inferences from available information. I sometimes get ahead of myself and jump to conclusions. It’s not my best trait.”

  “Didn’t look like you rushed to judgment back then, when Mr. Greer wanted to lynch Sam Cartwright.”

  I look away, concede a reluctant “I’m trying,” and look back, catching Amy’s expression, as though the jury’s definitely still out on what to make of me.

  “Well, Grandpa’s usually a good judge of character. Usually. And he seems to like you. God knows why, because as far as I can tell, you still haven’t fixed his dog.”

  Pleading upturned eyes bring me back. “Where are my manners?” I squat down and cradle Clint’s head in my hand. It’s an effort for Clint to wag her tail from side to side, just once, before she curls inside my open arms and crumples into me as though she is spent. This dog is in serious trouble.

  “Let’s take her back. Find out what’s going on.”

  What am I thinking, asking Amy to join me? Why not go with a simple “you should leave Clint with me,” take her out of the equation, and avoid the possibility of more awkward conversation and uncomfortable introspection? But I can’t help myself. I deliberate, weigh the possibilities, and I ask all the same.

  We start with Clint’s X-rays.

  “You usually work alone?”

  “Yes,” I say, reassuring Clint as she lies on her side. No sedation required. No need for strategically placed sandbags to hold her still. Clint is more than happy to close her eyes and have her picture taken.

  I focus the illuminated crosshairs of light on the center of the dog’s chest. Lewis went over the basics of how to take an X-ray, but this is still my first time. I want to see what’s going on inside Clint’s body, not leave her with a permanent Chernobyl glow.

  “Please, step back around the corner.”

  “You think every single girl in this town is pregnant?” Amy hits me with a wide-eyed glare before taking dramatic big steps backward. “I’m kidding.”

  I depress the button on the handheld controls, hear the ping, and step forward to retrieve the unprocessed film. What used to be a half bathroom off the main work area was long ago converted into a compact, lightproof developing room.

  “I won’t be a minute.”

  “Can I see how it’s done?”

  “It’s mostly touch. In total darkness.”

  Amy’s shrug tells me she is no less interested, so I switch on the red safe light, the two of us step inside, and as Lewis insisted, I lock the door to prevent anyone bursting in and spoiling the precious film.

  I’ll be honest. Trapped inside a dusky six-by-four space with this beautiful woman ignites a certain clandestine, almost pubescent excitement in me. This essential darkness works as “mood lighting.” It’s like a teenage date in a linen closet.

  “There can’t be any light when I put Clint’s film through the processor or when I reload the cartridge.”

  Amy nods, I hit the switch, and we disappear into the abyss.

  For a few seconds I pad and clunk around, getting my bearings.

  “Have you always preferred being alone?”

  “I like to be independent, autonomous. It suits me.”

  “I meant being a bachelor. Being single.”

  I flinch, and the X-ray of Clint’s chest slips from my fingers, the sheet of unprocessed film seesawing its way toward the floor in my imagination. I curse.

  “Problem?” asks Amy.

  “Stay exactly where you are.”

  I bend at the waist and begin sweeping my hand back and forth until I feel the top of my head brush up against something soft.

  “I don’t know about South Carolina but I’m pretty sure that constitutes sexual harassment in this state.”

  “Sorry,” I snap. “It’s so damned dark in here. I managed to drop the …”

  “Is this what you are looking for?”

  Something flat but flexible brushes against the back of my hand.

  “Thank you,” I say, taking the film.

  “My pleasure,” says Amy, her nonchalance belying her amusement.

  But now, of course, I am completely out of position. The mental image of the cabinet containing what few remaining sheets of X-ray film the practice possesses, and the mouth to the processor, are no longer where my mind left them before we were plunged into total darkness.

  “Did you ever play blind man’s bluff as a kid?”

  “No,” I hiss before crying out as I drive my hip into something sharp.

  “Have much luck beating the crap out of a birthday piñata?”

  She’s obviously enjoying herself.

  “Not that I recall.” I grimace as the mouth of the lightproof cabinet tries to amputate my fingertips. “Why d’you ask?”

  “Oh, no reason.”

  My mind jumps to When Harry Met Sally, Billy Crystal talking to Meg Ryan.

  There are two kinds of women: high maintenance and low maintenance.

  Which one am I?

  You’re the worst kind. You’re high maintenance but you think you’re low maintenance.

  It’s another sixty seconds before the film has disappeared into the machine and it’s okay to switch the red safe light back on again.

  But I don’t.

  I wait and listen to her breathing. I wait and savor her proximity, her presence, and the faintest smell of apples that seems to be coming from her hair.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Fine. It’s processing.”

  I risk waiting a little longer and reach for the switch.

  “So, why is Dr. Cyrus Mills all alone?”

  I freeze and the sound of my inhalation, the pause as I hold my breath, fills the tiny room. My index finger hovers. Cloaked in the security of darkness I reply, “I think you get used to being alone, of not needing to share a life, of believing you’re not missing out on much. You let the work take over, let it squeeze out all the rest. After a while you forget to think about any other type of future. I guess hope yields to frustration and eventually you become resigned to disappointment.”

  I catch myself before the silence stretches too far. Can’t believe I let that get away from me. “Sorry, that sounded a lot more grim than it was meant to.”

  I can almost sense her deliberation.

  “No girlfriends? No wife?”

  “I’ve known some women in my time,” I say, sounding almost offended.

  “Really. Pretty women? Sexy women? Strong women?”

  “Um … maybe.”

  In the pause I wonder if her rosebud lips are smiling.

 
“But not the right woman.”

  I don’t answer but flip the switch, hoping the red haze will mask any incriminating discoloration of my cheeks. “Here’s the film. Let’s take a look.”

  I gesture for Amy to leave. She unlocks the door, steps into the halogen light of the work area, and I follow, blinking and confused, stumbling into the back of her.

  “Ah, there you are, Dr. Mills. Been looking everywhere for you. The whiffy man just finished up. Apparently your cyber-net should be good to go.”

  I think it might be easier to deal with Doris if she would act embarrassed or appalled to see Amy and I stumbling out of the pitch-black X-ray room. Instead she appears indifferent, as though she is used to her boss’s inability to keep it in his pants. She scurries off to her desk before I have a chance to explain.

  I put up the image on the viewing box and the perils of the dark room fade away, to be replaced by a different quandary, the bright objectivity of confusing shades of gray.

  “See anything?” asks Amy.

  “I see lots of things.”

  “Anything abnormal?”

  I scrutinize the lungs, the heart, the bones of the spine. “I’m not sure.”

  The bark, actually more of a yap, comes from the dog run, and we both turn to find Toby standing at the bars, swaying like he’s had one too many.

  “Like father like son,” says Amy, opening the door, bending down and petting Toby’s head. Struck by her confidence I join her, my presence inciting a halfhearted grumble.

  “Whoa. Someone’s feeling better. Could you hang on to him a second while I take his temperature.”

  Amy holds Toby, and his grumble escalates to a growl until I extract the thermometer.

  “Don’t think this dog likes you.”

  “He hates me,” I say. “One hundred two point six, almost back to normal. No more ice and cold IV fluids for you.”

  “Does this mean he wasn’t poisoned?”

  An experienced veterinarian would probably be able to answer this question. I wonder if Amy can tell.

  “Ever read any Conan Doyle?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  “ ‘Silver Blaze’? The one with the curious incident of the dog in the night-time?”