The Good, the Bad & the Beagle (3 page)

Veronica might as well be the lab rat for that idea. She was the victim of a finger rash, which flared up whenever she was upset. But the paper wasn’t about Veronica even if the theory was. Marvin Morgan would never put his family in any of his papers, so instead he had chosen his patient Edith Kreller, a name he made up to protect her identity. Edith Kreller suffered from psoriasis and an unhappy marriage. Mrs. Kreller’s emotions—her stupid psoriasis and her unhappy marriage—were all Veronica’s parents talked about lately.

Veronica was so sick of Mrs. Kreller. Why couldn’t they talk about Cadbury instead? She stroked him softly, careful to avoid his hot spots. She cooed and fawned and was suddenly struck by a lightning bolt of pure brilliance. In order to convince her parents to buy Cadbury, she had to appeal to them as professionals. They were obsessed with their patients. Cadbury was suffering from all sorts of anxiety and rashes and needed professional help too. He could be their new Mrs. Kreller. This was the answer, she was certain. But would she be able to accomplish this before someone else bought him? That was the question. She’d have to work fast.

“I will get you somehow, some way,” she whispered to her future dog. She grabbed her backpack and said a quick goodbye to Esme, who put Cadbury back in his crate.

“See, that girl don’t talk,” Ray said.

“To you, Ray. She doesn’t talk to you. But you don’t talk to her either,” said Esme.

“Snap,” Ray said and helped himself to a dog treat.

Mary

Veronica heard Mary’s little TV as she opened the front door. Mary was almost always stationed in front of the miniature TV on the kitchen counter watching some cooking show or a show about celebrity gossip.

“Ah, she lives! Congratulations. You survived,” Mary said as Veronica came through the kitchen door. Mary took care of Veronica and their house while her parents worked.

Veronica put her backpack on a stool and her head on Mary’s arm. There was nothing quite as soft and solid as Mary.

“See, you are tougher than you think,” Mary said, patting Veronica on the head. A plate of sliced bananas and Oreos slid in front of Veronica and before she could ask, a glass of milk appeared. Veronica took an Oreo and dipped it in milk.

“What are you watching, Mary?”

“I am watching how to live forever without cancer by making a smoothie from tofu and watermelon. You want to try?”

“Okay.”

Mary took blueberries and tofu and watermelon from the fridge. Then kale.

“You look worried. They say you cannot taste the kale,” she said.

“I’m always worried. You know that, Mary. You don’t exactly have to be a mind reader to figure that out, no offense.” Veronica unscrewed a second Oreo and put a banana slice in between the two cookie halves.

“None taken,” Mary said, and began cutting the watermelon. “How many times we have to tell you. You will make new friends. You’ll see. When I came here from Germany, I know no one. Now I know people. Why you don’t believe me?” The blender made a screeching noise as chunks of pink and blue and white and dark green churned separately until they were sucked into the wrath of the blades all together.

The pool of ideas the grown-ups in her life had access to was obviously bone-dry since Mary and her mother and her father said the same things all the time. Mary poured thick purple goop into a glass and pushed it toward Veronica.

“And you know what else, Veronica Louise Morgan? Cricket Cohen is not the only girl in New York City. Maybe you make new friends. Better friends,” Mary said.

Veronica didn’t think she told Mary lots of the things that worried her, like her entire relationship with Cricket Cohen for example, but Mary seemed to know anyway. Everybody knew. Sometimes talking about your problems was no help at all. But try telling that to a pair of psychiatrists.

Veronica hopped off her stool to look for her favorite straw. It was usually in the back of the side drawer where her mother kept various kitchen gadgets and take-out menus though they always ordered from the same Chinese restaurant. She stuck her loopy straw into Mary’s latest creation with glee. She had to suck hard at the purple slush to pull it through the loops into her mouth. It wasn’t bad, even if it had kale and tofu in it and was probably healthy. Mary was good in the kitchen. All the ladies in Veronica’s life were.

“You were thirsty. Now, my baby. Look at the glass. Is it full?”

“Oh, Mary.
Please
. Not the half-full lecture.”

“Yah, Veronica. Your whole life, you look at the worst side of everything. I think this year you change. I think good things happen to you at this school. I think you finally will change your perspective.” Veronica knew what Mary meant, but she also knew that however she looked at the glass—half-full or half-empty—it was still just half a glass. So who cared.

Mary patted Veronica’s hair and poured herself a smoothie. She drank some and the funny-looking purple mustache it left above her lip made Veronica smile.

“Yuck. You like this tofu business?” Mary said, and spit hers into the sink.

“Yah,” Veronica said, “and you could too. If you change your perspective.”

Mary laughed. She hugged Veronica close against her soft body and kissed her three quick times in a row like she always did.

Dr. Veronica Morgan, Dog Psychiatrist

On the Internet, later that afternoon, Veronica discovered three things responsible for causing hot spots. The first was tangled or matted hair. That only applied to long-haired dogs, not beagles. The second was allergies. Esme had never mentioned Cadbury having any allergies, so Veronica didn’t think that was relevant. The third was boredom, stress, or loneliness. Bingo.

“Your dog,” the site said, “may need more exercise, playtime, or attention. Lack of any or all of these things may result in a dog who maims himself by constant licking and scratching.”

The thought of Cadbury maiming himself made her finger itch and her heart break. Obviously if Cadbury belonged to the Morgan family, he wouldn’t be lonely, so he wouldn’t need to hurt himself. Adopting him was good for Veronica and crucial for Cadbury. Why should Mrs. Kreller be the only one to benefit from psychiatric intervention?

Veronica would lay it on thick tonight, at dinner, but she had to finesse it just right. Her parents had to think adopting Cadbury was their idea. Her plan was so brilliant she could barely stand it.

Meanwhile, it was time to walk Fitzy.

“Be careful, my baby,” Mary said. “And don’t bring him in here to say hello. He is one dog that ruins the whole bunch.”

“Of apples?”

“Yah, Fitzy is more bad apple than one bad apple.”

“Mary.”

“Yah?”

“Never mind,” Veronica said. Sometimes explaining the English language to Mary was a lot more trouble than it was worth. She grabbed a plastic bag from the kitchen and headed for the elevator.

Fitzy was a miniature dachshund who lived on the tenth floor. Fitzy growled at the doormen, bit her dog walkers, and took special delight in nipping at young children. She wore a monogrammed sweater and a bow at all times. Perhaps Fitzy suffered from too much attention. Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson called Veronica the Dog Whisperer because Fitzy adored Veronica. In fact, when their fifth dog walker quit, they offered to pay Veronica fifteen dollars a week to walk Fitzy. If Veronica had been able to convince her parents that she would be perfectly fine walking a ferocious dachshund, she had to be able to convince them to rescue an anguished beagle with psychosomatic hot spots.

A Chance for Success

Veronica returned from Fitzy’s walk with her plan for adopting Cadbury firmly in place. It was important not to engage with either parent too much before dinner. Her best chance for success would be at the table when her parents were relaxed and eating. She hung up her coat and steeled herself before going to the kitchen.

Surprise surprise, her mother had the Hunan Delight menu in one hand and the phone in the other. How many times a week did the Morgans order Chinese food? Too many. Still, Veronica hoped her mother would order the string beans. She turned on the faucet and washed her hands.

“Yes, chicken with yellow leeks,” her mother told the phone. “One order of dry sautéed string beans and one order of loofah. Thank you. What? Yes! Dumplings. Thanks for remembering! Life wouldn’t be worth living without your pork dumplings. Two orders. Fried.” Mrs. Morgan hung up the phone and flung her arms around her daughter. “How was school?”

“Okay,” Veronica said, taking a stack of plates and a pile of napkins from the counter.

“Let’s eat in the dining room tonight, okay, lovey? Tell me everything.”

“There’s not much to tell. My uniform is too long, but you already know that,” Veronica said, very pleased with herself. Her plan had three parts and thanks to that last remark, part one was officially in motion. Part one depended on making her parents feel bad about how awful school was, that she had no friends, etc. Part two was establishing how sad Cadbury was: hot spots, unwanted, etc. Part three: BUY CADBURY. She was a genius. Cadbury was almost hers.

“That’s it?” her mother said. “That was your whole Randolf experience?”

“Pretty much,” Veronica said, putting plates and napkins on the table. Of course she could tell them about her teacher, about Morning Verse, about the two movie star girls with matching sweaters, but not now. Right now she had to stick to the plan. Mr. Morgan appeared from the powder room with wet hands. He kissed Veronica and dried his hands on the back of her sweatshirt at the same time.

“Gross, Daddy,” Veronica said. He responded with another kiss.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked.

“Chinese,” Veronica and her mother answered in unison.

“Oh, yummy,” her father said, clearly disappointed. Veronica and her father walked to the kitchen.

“Marion, you’re such a good cook. Can’t you cook for us? Sometimes? Please?”

“I am a good cook. But I don’t know how to cook
quickly
. I have a full-time practice, Marvin.” She handed her husband a water pitcher.

“Couldn’t you just cook fewer things?” he asked. “I mean, I’m not a cook myself, but it seems to me that if you made fewer dishes, it would perhaps take less time?” He stood at the sink, running water, waiting for the pitcher to fill.

It was taking forever to sit down.

“I don’t know how to make fewer dishes. Even though I am in the mental health business, I have no sense of moderation.”

“That’s for sure,” Veronica piped in. She grabbed three glasses from the shelf and filled them with ice. Her mother could hardly be accused of not knowing herself. When she cooked, she kind of went crazy. She made dessert from scratch, she made stocks and sauces and everything was delicious and it really did take her three days to feed the three of them and then she seemed both proud and miserable watching it all get eaten in a matter of minutes.

“How was school, honey?” her father asked. Veronica took the glasses to the table.

“Good luck getting anything out of her,” her mother said, patting her daughter’s hair as she walked by.

“Fine. My uniform is too long. My teacher is nice. The kids don’t care I’m alive.”

“Fine is good!” her father said.

“
No
, Daddy,” Veronica said. “Fine is not good. Fine is fine. Which is much less than good.” The buzzer rang and the night doorman announced the deliveryman. Praise Hunan Delight. They would all be sitting down to eat any minute.

As always, Mr. Morgan took care of the transaction with the deliveryman at the door to their apartment, toting several shopping bags to the dinner table.

“Did you get any work done today, Marvin?” his wife asked. “You’ve got to write your conclusion. How is Mrs. Kreller? Did you take my notes?” She unpacked the Chinese food containers and helped herself to chicken with yellow leeks. Veronica couldn’t have asked for them to get to Mrs. Kreller any faster—it was almost too good to be true!

“Well,” her father said, sitting at the table, “I did, but honestly Mrs. Kreller is a mercurial woman. I may have to revise. One minute her emotions are the source of her anxiety and the next her psoriasis is the root of everything.”

Which came first, the anxiety or the rash? The Morgan family spent many evenings discussing things like this, like Greek philosophers debating paradox.

“Every time I’ve gotten her to acknowledge her withholding husband, she changes the subject to the humiliation of her skin condition,” her father continued. “It’s giving
me
a rash,” he said, laughing at his own joke.

Veronica and her mother looked at each other in silent agreement that the joke teller was often funnier than the jokes he told. Marvin Morgan continued, “She is turning out to be a very unreliable patient. Like Cricket Cohen was an unreliable friend.”

“Daddy, Cricket was a reliable friend,” Veronica said. She was annoyed. Cricket Cohen wasn’t part of the plan.

“Oh. I apologize. I was under the impression your friendship caused you distress,” Mr. Morgan said while looking at Mrs. Morgan.

Her parents, whose living depended on just how complicated the human psyche was, were so eager for her to label Cricket a good friend or a bad friend. They should know her friendship with Cricket wasn’t all good or all bad. She’d known Cricket her whole life and their friendship had always been less than simple.

“It does cause anxiety,” Veronica said. Anxiety could totally be part of phase one. She decided to run with it. “But it’s not her fault, she just has the kind of family that always does things, so she’s really busy,” Veronica said. “And then I can’t tell if she’s just busy or she doesn’t like me.” Veronica chewed, carefully reviewing the key parts of her plan.

“What kind of things?”

“You know, like apple picking and going to the opera, traveling. They’re just always super busy,” Veronica said. “Whereas
I
have the kind of family that never does anything except read and maybe go to the farmers’ market.” Even though all this talk about Cricket might contribute to her parents feeling bad for her, it was time to rein it in. “Cadbury has hot spots. Again. Please pass the dumplings.”