Ever by My Side (24 page)

“Well, I’m sure our Fiona will not be far behind. I reckon she’ll be heading down under once she’s finished her course.”

My sister had gone on to become a registered nurse and was training to be a midwife when she met an Australian pediatrician. It was quite possible my parents were about to see both their children disappearing to opposite ends of the world. Suddenly it seemed as though we were all destined to live our lives along different lines of latitude and longitude—remote, parallel, and entirely independent.

“Good for her,” I said, but felt better adding, “so long as she’s happy.”

“She is,” said Dad. “Just like you, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

I supposed it did matter, but it certainly wasn’t everything. I couldn’t hear regret or sadness in his voice; then again, at this stage in my life, I probably wasn’t listening as well as I should have been. Dad simply believed in any future in which his children were happy, no matter what the sacrifice. As we stood there, downing our beers, neither he nor I truly appreciated what this sacrifice would mean, how
three thousand miles changes everything. I had destroyed any chance for us to share an impulsive, casual encounter: “I was in the area so I thought I’d stop by. See what you’re up to. Hang around for a while.”

Instead, at this distance, everything would have to be planned, time allotted, all the thrill and possibilities of spontaneity abandoned. My parents had every right to feel sad and betrayed. It’s one thing to leave the nest, it’s another to leave the country.

“How’s Whiskey and Bess?” I asked.

“Grand. Staying with your grandma. Funny how quickly I miss them.”

“Well, now that Marty has passed on, at least there’s a good chance that they’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

I should point out that for a while there, it looked like Marty might live forever. In the end he was nearly eighteen when he died peacefully in his sleep, a few years before I graduated veterinary school. Naturally Grandma was devastated. Naturally my sadness for her was tainted with the relief of knowing Marty and I were to be deprived of a professional relationship.

Dad chuckled but his mind was elsewhere, working on logistics regarding the dogs.

“Now if anything were to happen to them, I could call you, right?”

“Of course. Don’t be silly.”

“ ’Cause sometimes with the time difference it can be awkward.”

“Call whenever. Day or night. I’m not sure what good I can do over the phone but I’m happy to try. Besides, when it comes to Whiskey, I might not be able to do much even if I was in the same room.”

“Well, if they ever need surgery, keep your passport ready. We’ll have you on the first flight back home.”

I agreed, feeling good to be able to promise this much—the best, the only, concession I could offer.

“Anyway, I’m sure I’ll be back soon. We’ll all come visit you in the cottage. You can show off the Yorkshire Dales.”

What do they say about the best-laid plans of mice and men? How does the cloying childish taunt go? “First comes love, then comes marriage …” Well, my plan to go back to Britain soon went awry because, before I knew it, a baby carriage was just one of many essential prenatal purchases being made in a new life that seemed to have shifted beyond my control.

Like most doting fathers I could wax lyrical about the pregnancy, the labor, and the precise moment my life changed forever, but instead let me focus on a few specifics.

Firstly, Kathy’s obstetrician, Dr. Mendel (a man who, during the legitimately ferocious phase of labor, she mistakenly referred to as Dr. Mengele), strongly suggested an amniocentesis in order to better assess the health of our baby girl (working in a veterinary facility affords access to ultrasound machines operated by curious and persistent ultrasound technicians and before long I had discovered the sex of my firstborn via water cooler gossip!). This Kathy did, the procedure painful and disturbing but ultimately indicating a normal healthy pregnancy.

Secondly, despite my medical background, it was not until Kathy’s water had broken and we were riding the elevator up to delivery, that it finally struck me how, one way or another, this child
would
be born, naturally or via cesarean section, and the need to evacuate the mother ship guaranteed things were about to get … well … 
intense
. If I had been thinking clearly, I might have appreciated the stupidity of having an impacted wisdom tooth extracted that very morning, wafting the aroma of decay and clotted blood out with every soothing word of support, into the vicinity of a
woman harboring a superior sense of smell and a desire to see me dead. But, when Emily Sydney emerged, I crawled out of the doghouse, cut the cord, and did my fatherly duty, reporting back, “Ten fingers, ten toes, perfect.”

When we brought Emily home from the hospital, I felt a twinge of trepidation about introducing Reggie to our new arrival given the challenge of my own initiation into his posse. And it didn’t help that I had become a Howard Hughes germaphobe overnight. The prospect of gaining his approval through an endearing lick from his tongue seemed more like an opportunity to contract disease via oral bacteria. If nothing else I wanted to spare her baby-soft skin a feline sandpaper abrasion. But to my surprise, Reggie proved to be intuitively cautious. He would curl up nearby and fall asleep in a manner that took months with me and he avoided direct contact. I interpreted his distance as indifference, maybe even respect, and I concluded that he had accepted our noisy pink interloper.

During the three years of my surgical residency I managed to get back to England only once, a memorable visit by virtue of my awareness of change.

Whiskey and Bess had aged, especially Bess, her muzzle more gray than black, and both dogs had been packing on the pounds. Descriptions over the phone had been verbally airbrushed compared to what I saw in the flesh and it was obvious that my absence had been an opportunity to let the rules slide. I was seeing too many overweight dogs suffering from arthritis, heart disease, kidney disease, and type 2 diabetes not to have an opinion regarding unnecessary overindulgence in the food department. So what if I had started to sound nagging and repetitive? With the disciplinarian away, the
unruly kids had taken over, and at dinner one night it almost felt as though my parents were totally unfazed by expectant, hungry snouts resting on the table. Ordinarily, I would have been an outspoken critic but I sensed I had to be careful. If their son visited more often perhaps he would play a bigger part in the dogs’ welfare. If their son visited more often the dinner table would be full of grandchildren and not dogs.

My obligatory “once-over” session found Bess to be in good health, aside from a number of small, smooth, encapsulated lumps just below her skin.

“Almost certainly lipomas—benign fatty growths. But best to have them checked out with your regular vet and then keep an eye on them.”

This discovery of a health issue, albeit minor, and my dependence on a veterinarian other than myself appeared to hit me more than it hit my father. He gushed over their new vet in the Dales and I confess to having felt a pang of jealousy.

“Does he know about me?”

“No, not really,” said Dad.

“Well, he either does or he doesn’t.”

Dad looked uncomfortable, as though I had caught him in a lie.

“I suppose it’s never come up.”

I didn’t press the issue. How could I? My father needed to develop a connection with a veterinarian of his own. Never given to bragging, what would he stand to gain by telling this man his son was training to be a veterinary surgical specialist? And there was no dig, no reprisal in his comment. It was simply fact.

To be honest, when I tried to examine Whiskey I was thankful there was an independent doctor in the picture. Prior to going to America, I could fake my way through a cursory examination, integrating enough pats and scratches with genuine palpation to get a
reasonable sense of his physical well-being. A few years later and Whiskey’s fear memory was much sharper, his growl a warning of serious intent.

“Whoa, I think my work here is done.”

Dad apologized for the outburst, even though Whiskey and I were already buddies again, a golden muzzle rooting for my hand and forgiveness.

“You think you’ll ever get a dog of your own?” Dad asked as he watched us roughhouse. Whiskey loved these games, puffing up, all frisky if I tickled his nose with his own feather duster tail, or if tried to encourage him to take a bite.

Earlier, I had changed Emily’s diaper, laying her down on the duvet in my parents’ bedroom. She had been wearing a wool cardigan, and when I picked her up my daughter had transformed into a retriever puppy, she was so covered in golden hairs. Was this observation a sign of my new appreciation for the tidiness of cats over the shedding of hairy dogs?

“I don’t know. I think so. At some point in time, maybe when life is a little less hectic.”

Dad looked troubled, as though my answer was too vague, as though getting a dog sounded too much like a chore to be put off, perhaps abandoned altogether.

“Does Kathy not like dogs?”

I worked my brain around the question and shook my head.

“She’s had dogs her whole life. She had a husky who lived to be sixteen and then a standard poodle. Right now, neither of us has enough time to devote to a dog. That’s why independent Reggie is perfect.”

Dad winced on a sharp intake of breath, as though I had uttered words of blasphemy, or at least infidelity.

“It’s true. He’s such a great cat. He’s tough but affectionate. He’s
autonomous but loves to be with you. He’s our little man. I’ve even found myself missing him since we’ve been away, wondering if he’s all right.”

This declaration of feline love did little to assuage my father’s fear of never seeing me with a dog of my own. Fiona, he knew, was a lost cause. No point in even trying to persuade her to get a dog. But now his son, the veterinarian, was sleeping with the enemy, preferring the company of a cat. James Herriot would turn in his grave.

Nearly twenty years had passed since an anxious little boy fretted over uprooting his beloved German shepherd when his family decided to move to another town. Now it was my turn to be the father, to uproot my family and do right by an altogether different but no less important animal, Reginald C. Cat.

With the completion of my residency and a limited number of job opportunities, I decided to take a chance on a job as a surgeon at a small specialty practice in Arizona. Kathy was up for something different—happy to help run the business in her spare time as a stay-at-home mom—but her biggest concern was Reggie.

“He’ll be fine,” I said. “How different can it possibly be?”

And all of a sudden I realized I was taking a barn cat and basically dropping him in the middle of Mars. The Sonoran Desert has a unique beauty, spectacular space, saguaro forests, and light like nowhere else on earth, but it is rife with fauna and flora designed to pierce, maim, or kill an unsuspecting indoor/outdoor cat.

I can’t imagine poor Reggie’s astonishment when he first stepped foot in his new home. Here was a cat rooted in routine, and without his approval I had canceled his membership in the barn he thought of as a country club and traded woodlands and green grass for cacti
and barren caliche soil. He was a creature of four seasons, adept at finding a warm nest in the winter, cool shadows on a humid July afternoon. Suddenly it was practically summer all year round, and by now I knew enough about Reggie to believe the stock phrase “but it’s a dry heat” would be met with the response “so is the inside of a blast furnace!”

For the longest time Kathy and I debated about converting Reggie to a life indoors. There seemed to be so much unprecedented danger out there. If a jumping cholla didn’t get him, there was always a scorpion, a Gila monster, a tarantula, or a pack of coyotes. How could a street-smart New England kitty survive in a desert? But, as it turned out, we couldn’t wean the independent streak out of him. He clawed and pawed, demanding to be outside. At first we watched him from a distance, monitoring his route, as though we might be able to intervene the first time he got into a fight with a rattlesnake. But after a while, when he returned home with nothing more than the occasional cactus spine caught up in his fur, we began to worry less.