The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel (15 page)

“Come on, Tina, come on sweetheart, just a little more.”

I begin to air my inner monologue.

Traction is only advised if the veterinarian can position his fingertips around the fetus’s shoulders or hips
.

Denise leans into the table, her face in Tina’s face. “Please, Tina, please,” she whispers, big tears dripping onto her cat’s whiskers, causing Tina to snuffle and grunt. Believe me, it’s hard to tell, but I think something has moved, no, something has definitely moved because right now I can touch something firm and bony. It could be a hip. I give it the tiniest tug imaginable.

And it’s like flipping a switch. Tina is back from the dead, raising her head, meowing, pushing with purpose, and I withdraw just in time to catch a lifeless black blob with pink feet.

Denise and I are frozen, unable to move. We look on as maternal instinct kicks in and Tina gets busy with her barbed pink tongue, chewing off membranes, licking life into the kitten. As I register the soft sound of newborn crying I realize that I am actually basking in a state of wonder, amazed that I can still feel amazed by what I am supposed to do for a living. I did nothing, yet the sight of this tiny angry creature tells me that somehow I did enough. In the deep and complicated relationship that exists between this frightened young girl and her best friend, I, a complete stranger, a transient nobody, have somehow inserted myself into this small but precious moment, a moment the three of us will forever share, a moment that against all expectations, I know I’ll treasure.

“Oh my God, like, oh my God.” For a second I think the old Denise is back and breezy until I notice how she still looks as anxious as before, as though she simply cannot believe that Tina did it, that she avoided the C-section, that it’s all over, that Mom and kitten are doing fine.

I reach out to squeeze her hand and realize too late, this is all me, nothing to do with Lewis.

“I know, I know,” I say. “It’s going to be okay.” Although my heart is racing, I’m beaming with genuine delight.

“No,” she says, stepping back from the table. “You don’t understand.”

I look down and see Denise standing in a massive pool of fluid and for a second I’m confused.

Where could that puddle have possibly come from?

“My water’s broken,” says Denise. “I’m going to have
my
baby … now!”

“Well, well, if it isn’t the man of the hour,” Doris says the moment I set foot in the packed waiting room. Her audience falls silent as I become the subject of their attention, and I’m totally unprepared. It’s a little after ten in the morning. I haven’t bothered to shower. I haven’t bothered to brush my hair. I’m the disheveled schoolboy who’s late to class, embarrassed and on the spot.

“These are yours.” Doris negotiates her desk to serve me with a wad of messages. There must be a dozen slips of paper. I look up. Every man, woman, dog, cat, and what appears to be an albino rabbit stares in my direction. I blush, keep my head down, and march through to the back.

My mood improves the moment I see Tina the cat and her newborn kitten spooning peacefully in a cage. I take note of a bowl of fresh water, a neatly primped and clean towel for them to lie on, an empty food bowl, and a pleasantly distended kitten belly. Though I feel like I just stepped off a turbulent red-eye, when I take in this scene, something bitter inside me fizzles and dissipates, replaced by a strange but agreeable calmness. It’s a relief to know Lewis has looked in on them this morning. I wonder how Denise and her baby boy are doing. I should call the hospital later this morning.

Over in the examination room I can hear a muted spiel. Lewis is at work, exalting the merits of a high-fiber diet. It’s his morning for appointments, hence the full waiting room. I’ve got a dinosaur-size bone to pick with him for leaving me in the lurch last night, and we still haven’t discussed the best way to handle the mysterious newspaper article, but as I begin flicking through my messages, resolve gives way to a swell of nausea ripping through my guts.

Based on the many phone calls Doris has already fielded this morning it looks like I’m about to pay a heavy price for delivering Denise’s son in the form of unwanted attention.

Someone named Ron from the
Burlington Free Press
called twice, begging for an exclusive interview. A producer from the local NBC affiliate, WPTZ, and a producer from FOX 44 want to run the story on their evening show. There are phone numbers for Vermont Public Radio, AM 620, and The Zone Talk Radio stations. Mrs. Silverman insists I give her a call—Doris bookended
URGENT
with asterisks for a little extra pep. Someone named Dominique called from the Montreal
Gazette
. Denise called to check in on Tina and her kitten and last, but not least, a Mr. Peter Greer called from the
Eden Falls Gazette
. Why does the name Greer sound familiar?

Everybody knows everybody in this town. Perfect. And there was me, worried about an anonymous extortionist, hoping against hope that he or she might want to trade in private. Why not toss in a little unwanted media attention, improve the odds of a viewer, listener, or reader ratting me out to the state veterinary board? Might as well start packing now.

Back out in the waiting room, ignoring the stares, I walk up to the reception desk. Doris has her head buried in paperwork.

“Doris, how many cases does Lewis have left to see?”

A raised ocher-stained index finger launches toward my face, making me wait until Doris slowly angles her head in my direction and meets my eyes.

“Half a dozen,” she says, delivering one of her scary smiles.

I dare to lean in a little closer.

“Look, I need to speak to him.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be possible, Dr. Mills. You see he’s already behind, and some of these poor people have been waiting for nearly an hour.”

Did she just crank up the volume so that everyone could listen in on our conversation? There’s only one thing to do. “Since he’s so busy I’ll help out by seeing a few of his cases myself.”

Doris gives me the kind of glare she might reserve for a family member trapped behind the bars of a prison cell as she refuses to pay their bail so that they might learn their lesson.

“That’s kind of you, Dr. Mills, but these clients are specifically here to see Dr. Lewis. We don’t want to disappoint them now, do we?”

I’m pretty sure that wasn’t a compliment. “Just give me the next file, Doris,” I say, under my breath. “And could you please
label it
like we discussed yesterday afternoon.”

Doris knows what I’m talking about, so why is she shrugging her scrawny shoulders? If people are going to talk, let it be about the way this new vet expects to get paid for every visit.

There’s a theatrical moment in which Doris pretends to catch on. She surreptitiously peels off a yellow Post-it note, scribbles something, slaps it on the inside of a file, and hands it over. I see the patient’s name on the front.

“Puck,” I call. A seriously overweight, panting black Labrador gets to his feet and trots toward me followed by a woman and a man who is carrying the dog’s leash. The man is small, not quite as short as Doc Lewis but pretty close. He’s wearing a three-piece royal blue pinstripe suit that’s a little long in the sleeves, a white button-down shirt, and a striped tie. The snappy ensemble is finished off with an ungainly pair of black snow boots. As he closes the space between us, I can tell his hair is wrong, the dark brown of the periphery an imperfect match to the toupee up top.

The woman in his wake has to be ten years his junior and a good three inches taller. She’s wearing sneakers, a designer tracksuit, and her hair is tied up in a ponytail. She looks like she’s going to the gym, except for a fresh, thick layer of bright red lipstick. But what strikes me most is the way she stares at me, as though she can hardly contain her amusement. And that’s when it hits me. She’s the woman I pulled from the snowbank, the one with the black Lab, the eyewitness who saw me out and about with Frieda.

“Um … please, this way.” I lead them back into the workspace, trying to regroup. “Sorry it’s not the exam room, but I thought we could move things along. I’m Dr. Mills.”

“Dr. Ken Haggerty, headmaster at Eden Falls Academy.” Haggerty makes his job description sound like a title along the lines of secretary of state. And for a man who should know how to schmooze and work a room, his handshake is surprisingly weak.

“This is my wife, Crystal, and more importantly, this is Puck.”

“Actually, we’ve already met.” Crystal, steps in close, and, without her husband noticing, winks as she sandwiches her soft hands around mine. “But I do appreciate the formal introduction.” I have to pull my hands from hers. “So,” she says, “you’re the one who delivered that young girl’s baby last night.”

“That was pretty special of old Lewis,” says Haggerty, “new in town and already throwing you right in at the deep end.”

I shrug. “Luck of the draw. I took his on-call so he and his wife could catch dinner and a movie.”

Both Dr. and Mrs. Haggerty look surprised.

“Not possible,” says Haggerty. “Mrs. Lewis has been living in a special-care facility for the past few months. It’s my understanding she has very little time left to live. Isn’t that right, dear?”

His wife nods.

I don’t know what to say. Why would Lewis lie about such a thing?

Crystal Haggerty catches my dismay. “But we’re just as happy to see you, aren’t we, Ken?”

“Of course. Where’s that accent from?”

Will this inquisition ever stop? I hesitate, unsure of how much to share, and I’m reminded of a quote from
Lawrence of Arabia
.

A man who tells lies, like me, merely hides the truth. But a man who tells half lies has forgotten where he put it
.

“The Carolinas.”

“North or South?” asks Crystal.

I give up. “South. Charleston.”

“Really,” she says, unduly excited, “I wonder if you know our friends, Martin and Stephanie, breed Tibetan terriers, very big on the Charleston show circuit?”

“No,” I say, too quickly. “I never had anything to do with dog shows.”

“Oh, I spoke to Stephanie this morning and she could have sworn your name sounded familiar. Where did you practice?”

My moment of vacillation must look suspicious, and I can’t say whether Crystal Haggerty is simply curious or letting me know she’s done her homework and she’s on to me.

Ken comes to my rescue. “Please, if he had said New York would you have asked him if he knew Donald Trump? Can we focus on why we’re here?”

I try not to sigh with relief. “Definitely,” I say. “So what’s up with Puck?” The name is all it takes for this amiable creature to sidle over, tail working overtime, leaning in for a scratch. “Presumably he’s named after the character in
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
?”

I’m trying out the whole relate-to-your-clients thing. I’m thinking, Ken’s a headmaster, an academic type, it’s a reasonable question.

“You’re joking, right? I mean, look at him. He’s black and chunky. He’s named after a hockey puck!”

Okay, no more second-guessing the origin of pets’ names.

“He’s up to his old tricks,” says Dr. Haggerty, mussing his dog’s head. “Aren’t you boy? Throwing up. It happens every so often, puking once or twice a week, but this time it’s once or twice a day.”

I stare at Puck, doing his impression of a Roomba vacuum cleaner, working his nose around the smells on the floor. On the surface he appears to be absolutely fine—focused, tail wagging back and forth, not a care in the world.

“What’s normally the problem?” I ask.

Haggerty glances over at his wife. “Where to begin. When you look at Puck you can tell he loves to eat. But it’s more than that. It’s more than a desire for calories or taste. It’s about having stuff in his mouth, stuff he can swallow. I’m talking about jumping up on a kitchen counter to steal a loaf of bread.”

I’m not impressed.

“I’m talking about a whole loaf of bread still in its plastic wrapper. I’m talking about an entire Thanks giving turkey still in its aluminum foil.”

This time I shrug my shoulders. A dog has over two hundred and twenty million olfactory receptors in its nose. Humans have only five million. If I’m drooling over the smell of a Thanks giving turkey, I can only imagine what it can do to a dog.

Haggerty is shaking his head. “You don’t understand. It wasn’t even cooked. It’s not about satisfying his hunger, Puck loves the act of making stuff disappear. Leashes, shoes, seat belts, golf balls, bottle caps, if you can think of it, he’s swallowed it. And let’s not forget his penchant for underwear. Not mine of course, oh no. Puck has a discerning taste, a preference for my wife’s extensive lingerie collection. The poor dog has grazed his way through enough thongs and lace panties and stockings to fill a Victoria’s Secret catalog twice over.”

As her husband talks I cannot help but notice his wife. Crystal is standing behind him, and as he speaks about her frilly undergarments she offers me a single, raised, meticulously plucked eyebrow, her mouth on the verge of a coy smile. I may be wrong, but it’s a look I might expect from a woman half her age, an expression that says, “What’s a girl to do?” I turn away before I blush, fearing she might lick her top lip with a slick salacious tongue.