The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel
Read The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel Online
Authors: Nick Trout
OF LOST DOGS
“You’re going to love this story. There’s romance, redemption, a dog named Frieda, and a whole lot more.”
—Debbie Macomber,
#1
New York Times
bestselling author
“A touching story of second chances and how the love of animals can lead us to what lies hidden in our hearts.”
—Larry Levin,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Oogy
“I don’t know what was more enjoyable, Nick Trout’s inexperienced veterinarian with his slightly tweaked outlook, the clannish Vermont town, or the intrigue of finding what was lost. I stayed up long into the night laughing and marveling at Trout’s adept hand.”
—Jacqueline Sheehan,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Picture This
“I tore through this in one sitting. Engaging, insightful, and full of the genial warmth that makes Nick Trout’s other work such a joy to read.”
—Gwen Cooper,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Homer’s Odyssey
“The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs
is every bit as sweet and slightly goofy as the golden retriever who sets Nick Trout’s romp of a novel into a whirl of motion that never lets up from the very first page. There are few pleasures in life sweeter than watching the bitter, conniving Dr. Cyrus Mills—a vet who’s definitely not in the lovable James Herriot mold—gradually morph into a generous human being, thanks to the influence of his animal patients. I dare you to feel crabby after reading this book.”
—Bob Tarte,
author of
Kitty Cornered
and
Enslaved by Ducks
For Emily
Dum spiro spero
—Cicero
While I breathe,
I hope.
The jingle of the old shopkeeper’s doorbell makes me jump—not least because my first customer of the evening happens to be my first customer in fourteen years.
“Can I help you?” I ask, realizing too late my tone probably sounds more annoyed than inviting. I guess I need to brush up on my customer service skills.
On the far side of the waiting room stands a man in a funereal charcoal suit, tethered, by way of a nylon cord, to a golden retriever. The dog seems intent on getting to me—her tail up and aflutter, nails scratching for traction on the linoleum. The man on the makeshift leash has other ideas, though. Barely audible curse words form on his clenched lips as he yanks on the cord.
“You the doctor?” he asks.
I look down at my white coat, which looks (and feels) more like a costume than a uniform. It’s a little tight in the pits, a little shy in the wrists, but I did remember to drape a stethoscope around my neck like a scarf. Still, I almost feel like an imposter. Maybe that’s because I am a bit of an imposter.
“Yes,” I say, nodding. Slowly stretching out the syllable does little to improve my credibility. “I’m the doctor.” The man squints past me, over my shoulder, at the plaque screwed to the examination room door—
DR. ROBERT COBB, DVM
.
“I thought Doc Cobb was dead?”
“He is. I’m Dr. Mills.”
The man raises an eyebrow. If he thinks I’m going to elaborate, he’s mistaken.
“Whatever,” he says with an exaggerated sigh that sends a cloud of alcohol fumes my way. “I just need someone to put her to sleep.” He jabs a cocked thumb and index finger downward, in the general direction of the dog, but keeps his eyes on me.
Unbelievable. Back in town for fewer than four hours, and working on a living, breathing, creature for the first time in fourteen years, and what’s the first task I’m asked to perform? An elective euthanasia. Doesn’t it figure.
“Okay,” I say, but without conviction. “You’d best come on through to the exam room.”
I lead the way, and to my horror, the man lets go of the cord, and a supercharged golden linebacker barrels toward my groin.
“Frieda, God damn it,” he mutters as he stumbles after her.
My outstretched hand is meant to fend off fangs, fur, and drool, or at the very least slow her momentum, but Frieda treats my rebuttal as a welcome greeting, her graying snout rooting under my palm as she begins to rub her entire body back and forth across my legs. Dark corduroy pants and golden retrievers are not a good combination.
Frieda then charges past me, and I corral her down the short hall into the exam room, which hasn’t changed one iota in almost half a century—dull and scratched stainless steel examination table taking center stage, chipped Formica counters, unlabeled drawers, and cabinets built into institutional green walls. There’s a wooden bench for the owners, a wooden stool for the doctor. The passage of time may have made this space shrink, but right now it feels austere, more claustrophobic than cozy, a pervasive tang of antiseptic in the air.
“So Frieda is … was … one of Cobb’s patients?” I ask.
“No.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She’s not his patient. This is probably her first time at a vet’s office.”
Probably? What does
probably
mean?
The man blinks slowly as he speaks. He has a receding hairline, leaving plenty of forehead real estate for worry creases. His necktie is slack, top button of his shirt undone, and I can see red chafing around his throat—probably not used to being constrained by a starched collar. But at that moment, what strikes me most is that, as far as I can tell, not a single strand of blond golden retriever hair clings to any surface of his dark suit.
“Is she sick?” I ask, looking down at Frieda. She has settled, and by settled I mean she has become an appendage glued to the side of my right leg. It’s as if we are conjoined, like contestants bracing for a man-dog, six-legged race. And she refuses to be calm unless one of my hands is touching the top of her head. I poke the fur on her head gently. So what if my contact looks more like a wary blessing than a friendly pat?
“She’s having accidents.” The man ratchets up the volume and furrows his brow, as though this is more than enough justification to terminate her life. “Every morning. Exact same spot. I just had the floors redone, and they’re already ruined. You know it’s not like I wanna do this or nothing.”
His bluster sails past me. Instinctively, I latch on to the details.
“Accidents? Urination or defecation?”
“She pees in the kitchen. A lot.”
“What’s a lot? A normal adult dog in a normal environment produces anywhere between twenty and forty milliliters of urine for every kilogram of body weight in a twenty-four-hour period. Assuming she weighs … let’s say ninety pounds, or roughly forty kilos, then a volume of—”
“All I know is she’s peeing like a racehorse.”
I remove the coarse nylon collar from around Frieda’s neck. She’s not going anywhere.
“Is she spayed?”
“Dunno.” He glances down at the cell phone in his hand and begins keying something into the phone.
“You have no idea?” I say.
He stops moving his thumbs and looks up with a glare. I decide to change tack.
“Eating okay?”
“Sure.”
“Any vomiting?”
He shakes his head.
“Is she always looking for water? Drinking from the toilet bowl?”
“That’s disgusting.”
Now I raise my eyebrows.
“Not so as I’ve noticed.”
I take a step closer to the man and am once again bowled over by the smell of booze. My golden shadow follows suit.
“Well, I’m sorry to be so blunt but something isn’t adding up.”
The man rocks back a little in his stance, twists his face into a frown of incredulity. I have stopped petting Frieda, and judging by the frenzy of her busy snout in and around my crotch she’s not pleased. She barks and I relent.
“Let’s review the facts,” I say, feeling more confident on firmer ground. “For starters, your dog is obese, there’s no evidence of weight loss, and therefore inappropriate urination secondary to underlying cancer seems unlikely. Absence of bilaterally symmetrical alopecia tends to rule out Cushing’s disease, and your history doesn’t fit with kidney disease or diabetes. From a purely physiological standpoint a dog simply cannot have a normal water intake and excessive urination in one specific location and at only one specific time of the day.”
His features stretch back into place. “What are you talking about?”
I take a deep breath. Unfortunately for me, my entire professional career has left me unprepared to discuss the intricacies of polydipsia and polyuria with … to put it politely … inebriated laypeople. Then again, there’s not much call for small talk and insightful conversation when your patients are dead and never show up with an owner. Which is absolutely fine by me.
“Where you from?” asks the man before I can answer his apparently rhetorical question. “Down south?”
Given our current latitude in the northernmost reaches of Vermont, I could point out that “down south” is pretty much everywhere else in the lower forty-eight.
“Yes, sir, Charleston, South Carolina.”
“Long way from home.”
I manage a fake smile and keep quiet. Nothing could be further from the truth.
“You’re new, you’re a stranger, so let me offer you a piece of free advice,” he says, leaning in with a hard liquor–soused whisper. “Your fancy medical-speak won’t mean nothing to the folks of this town.” He leans back. “I’m not here for a lecture. I’m here to get done with my dog.”
Get done with my dog
. It’s been nearly a decade and a half since I graduated from veterinary school, determined to follow in my late mother’s footsteps, to became an expert in one specific and, for most pet owners, undervalued discipline—veterinary pathology. When you want to know the name of the disease that made your pet sick, I’m your guy—a veterinary pathologist. We’re the doctors who spend our days staring into microscopes, looking at slides, examining wafer-thin slices of diseased tissue so you can have a diagnosis. Sexy? Maybe not. Essential? Like William H. Macy says in
Fargo
, “You’re darn tootin’.” Literally translated,
pathology
means the study of suffering, and if my training has taught me anything, it’s a healthy respect for life.
Get done with my dog
. What a jerk. I may be accustomed to the clinical aspects of death, but this guy’s cavalier attitude makes even me bristle.
