The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel (26 page)

“Alone?”

“Does it matter? I choose places that interest me, places with unique and different cultures.”

“You mean places that don’t speak English? Never been tempted to take a cruise, relax at a resort?”

“What’s the point of travel if it doesn’t broaden your mind?”

“Fair enough. But, what’s the point of living if it doesn’t broaden your mind?”

With a deft and gentle touch, Lewis eases Clint into a position in which he can rummage the contents of her abdomen, feeling for any peculiarity. The cracking sounds come from Lewis’s arthritic knees and ankles.

“How about sports?”

“I run. Try to stay in shape.”

Lewis meets my eyes but keeps his hands on the move. “Running, not exactly a team sport.”

I’ve had enough of this. I get to my feet. “What are you trying to say?”

Lewis looks up at me, working that chipped incisor. “I’m trying to make you see that there’s more to life than what you left behind. Oh, I know this practice is in big trouble and I know Eden Falls is a far cry from Charleston, but deep down I also know there’s a part of you that’s finally coming alive.”

I shake my head and grapple with a smile because it still feels like the right thing to do. That’s when Clint cries out in pain.

“Easy girl, I’m sorry,” says Lewis, meeting her eyes, making sure she understands that he meant no harm. “It’s between her shoulder blades. If I press down hard like …”

Once more Clint flinches, but this time, taking no chances, she trots off to the other side of the room.

Lewis gestures for me to give him a hand up.

“What do you make of that?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I didn’t feel anything, and the X-rays look fine. But in a stoic dog like Clint I have to believe we’re on to something.”

I wipe my palms down my face. “This is so much harder than I remembered.”

Lewis interrupts the minor adjustment to his bow tie (today’s number is navy-and-white plaid) in order to squeeze my upper arm. “You know, the more you care, the harder it gets.”

I’m not impressed. “You steal that one from James Herriot?”

“No,” says Lewis. “Dr. Robert Cobb.”

I try to defy the old man’s eyes for as long as I can, but I have to look away and pull back. I’m afraid of what might happen if he hugs me. Cobb’s best friend always seems to get to me. I hate being so vulnerable. No, it’s more than that. I hate being so transparent.

“I know what you’re up to,” I say. Of course Lewis wants me to stay, wants me to believe that Bedside Manor offers a clear path forward. He’s ignoring the fact that I was fired from my last job, leaving me jaded enough to think this new grass is a whole lot greener than it really is. “And I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for everything you’ve done for me.”

There’s an empty pause in which I should have added,
and my father
.

“You make it sound like I’m wasting my time?”

Though I hear the question, I say nothing, because deep down where it counts I’m not brave enough to say,
no you’re not
, out loud.

Suddenly Doris sweeps into the room with tornadic fury. “Sorry to interrupt, Dr. Lewis, but the nursing home called to say you need to get over there right away.”

In the split second that follows, I watch as something bends and breaks inside the funny little man with the silk bow ties and it’s like a bucket of ice being poured down my back as I realize how trivial my concerns are compared to losing the love of your life.

“And, Dr. Mills, I found another hand-delivered package on the door step.”

With some trepidation, Doris hands over an identical manila envelope with my name on the front and no address or stamp.

I take it. Lewis seems to be frozen in place. For a moment, I wonder if he registered the word
another
.

“Go, get out of here, Lewis,” I say. “We’ll be fine.”

It’s all he can do to nod his appreciation and shuffle off , as though, finally, seventy-three years have caught up to him.

I wait until I’m alone, an ugly blend of emotions simmering nicely and coming to the boil. I reckon you can sympathize with the fear, the dread over what new damning evidence lies in my hand. But then, sadly, there’s a jealousy, a freshly kindled reminder of the way I never got to say goodbye to the person in the world
I
loved the most, my mother.

I rip the package apart and inside, stapled together, are nine sheets of paper. The title page reads:

The Vermont Statutes
Title 26: Professions and Occupations
Chapter 44: VETERINARY MEDICINE

What should be dry, boring legalese packs a very different gut-lurching punch when a single paragraph is circled in a bold, inky ring of black.

§ 2402. Prohibition; offenses

(a) No person shall:

(1) practice or attempt to practice veterinary medicine or hold himself or herself out as being able to so in this state without first having obtained a license from the board;

Though my hands are trembling, I’m more angry than scared. My extortionist may think he or she is clever, joining the dots, seeing the bigger picture, but there’s a difference between upping the ante and crossing the line. Forget about curiosity or amusement. This offense just got an upgrade from trying nuisance to full-scale combat. This is personal, and I will not be intimidated. Though it runs contrary to every fiber of my being, it’s time to fight back.

Ruth Mills would have been proud of me. Standing next to the microscope where she first introduced me to the delights of cytology and histology I can still hear her mantra:
The answer lies before you, Cyrus. To find it, take in the big picture with a low power lens, see the woods before the trees, survey the entire landscape before you search for your culprit’s mug shot. Keep your mind open, weigh all the possibilities, be thorough, consistent, and entirely reproducible
. I may be seething and my stomach may be tied in a gnarly bowline but I’m determined to remain rational (which is not the same as cool), to heed my mother’s advice, and get to the bottom of this treachery once and for all.

Cleary some form of coercion is inevitable and must be driven by one or more of three different motives: money, revenge or, most troubling of all, cold-blooded malevolence. Based on Cobb’s beloved status in the community I’m inclined to believe the target is me rather than Bedside Manor, and so, if I follow this logic, I can come up with four individuals with reasons ranging from making me squirm to ensuring I spend time in a federal penitentiary.

The first is McCall and Rand Pharmaceuticals. What better way to throw out a wrongful dismissal lawsuit against your company than discovering the plaintiff is practicing veterinary medicine illegally out of state? Though I can’t rule this out, this kind of blackmail feels a little heavy-handed for a multibillion-dollar company.

Next up, Peter Greer. Oh, he seemed nice enough, but he’s an editor in chief, he’s all about selling newspapers. Greer has the incentive and wherewithal to uncover my past, and if he’s really a two-faced, ungrateful, stonehearted journalist hoping to trade his silence for money then he’s going to be sorely disappointed.

My third suspect has to be Crystal Haggerty. She was here this morning and could have easily dropped off the package, misdirecting me with the story about her inquisitive friend from Charleston. Try as I might to assume that her only motivation must be free veterinary care for life, I fear her desire for leverage might be driven by her desire for sexual favors. Can’t she get the hint that I am not the least bit interested? Is this her way of saying,
I’ll do whatever it takes to satisfy my lust
?

This leaves me with my pick of the bunch. Brendon Small. Here’s a guy who knows he’s in the wrong on so many levels. He has to be playing for a Mexican standoff—my silence for his silence—and my showing up at his home last night must have totally rattled his cage. Mom was always a fan of Occam’s razor, and I’d bet that the simplest answer is the correct one this time. Brendon Small is behind the packages, and that’s why I dial his number.

Anne Small picks up on the third ring, thwarting my momentum. “Ah … hello, Mrs. Small, it’s Dr. Mills again … did your dog turn up?”

“No.” There’s a flatness in her voice that tells me she’s moved beyond hope, from rescue to recovery.

The phrase “no news is good news” pops into my head but I can’t say it. “I wonder if I might have a word with your husband?”

There’s silence on the line. “He’s out of town at a job fair. He’ll be back late tomorrow. Can I ask what it’s about?”

I’ve got nothing.

“Dr. Mills, you still there?”

“Yes. Tell him it’s about something I noticed the other night. Something important. He can call me whenever he gets a chance. Sorry to disturb you.” My finger is hovering over the end button, but I think about little Emily and stop myself. “Frieda’s going to be fine,” I say before hanging up.

Two o’clock. Doris, pacing outside, takes her last slow drag and holds it in deep, giving herself enough nicotine to get through the next few minutes as she wipes the snow off her shoes and opens the front door.

“Any news?”

Doris shakes her head. “Looks like you’re flying solo.” She points at the phone on her desk. “Did you listen to your messages?”

Before I can answer Doris presses a button on an answering machine below a digital number “2.”

Message one was received at 1:35 p.m. today
.

Dr. Mills, this is Ginny Weidmeyer. Chelsea seems much worse to me today and I’m not sure she’s strong enough to come out to your clinic. Could you please make a house call at your earliest convenience? I’ll be in for the rest of the day. Thank you
.

Doris scratches something on a scrap of paper. “This is her address.”

She slides it toward me like a croupier. I make no move to pick it up.

Message two was received at 1:42 p.m. today
.

I hate to be a pest, Dr. Mills
, a sheepish Crystal Haggerty draws out my name for dramatic effect.
But Puck is still not right. You really must see him in his natural environment. By the way, my friend Stephanie got back to me … aren’t you the dark horse?
And then, emphatically,
I’ll expect you no later than five thirty
.

Doris writes another note on a second scrap, slaps it down on the first.

“And these are the directions to the Eden Falls Academy. Assuming you don’t already know the way? Don’t look so worried,” says Doris. “If anyone shows up while you’re out, I’ll tell them you’ll be right back. That should keep them in their seats, don’t you think?”

I can ignore the innuendo, the professional emasculation, but the pleasure she derives, the wickedness worming its way through the creases of those sticky orange lips, finally makes me snap.

“What is it, Doris? What makes you ride me so hard? What have you wanted to say since the moment you laid eyes on me?”

Doris takes her time, straightens up, waiting for the animosity to rise, spread, and harden her features. “You have no idea what that man did for you. And I don’t care what he told folks, because it was a lie and you know it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The funeral, what else? What kind of a son doesn’t show up at his own mother’s funeral? I’ll tell you what kind … the kind who only thinks about himself. And what does Doc Cobb do? He does what he’s always done, makes excuses, telling everyone you’re doing some sort of volunteer work, somewhere foreign, middle of nowhere, no way to reach you. And everyone believed him, except me, because less than two hours after your mother is lying in her grave, he’s back there, talking to you on the phone, and all I can hear are poor Doc Cobb’s tears and screams. Don’t shake your head at me. I checked the phone records. I saw them with my own eyes. He called your dorm at college. You never went anywhere. You just wanted to be a thousand miles away from the one man in the world who needed you by his side.”

In the end I had to walk away, into the work area, preferring the curses of a rabid terrier to the wrath of a rabid receptionist.

People are prepared to baby you ’cause that’s what Doc Cobb wanted. Well, I’m telling you, I ain’t one of them anymore
.

What did she mean by this? And that word
anymore
? Up until now Doris has been babying me?

I should have tried to explain, to tell her that this was how my fourteen-year estrangement began. Though Cobb’s failure to share my mother’s passing was the final straw, the camel’s back had been ready to break for years. For my mother, work became the man’s mistress; for me, work became the man’s favorite son. With each passing year of my childhood, Cobb became increasingly consumed by his veterinary life, increasingly removed from his family life. Long before boarding school, Mom and I eventually stopped asking if he would join us on our road trips to visit her sister in the Carolinas. Neither of us could bear to hear the same old excuse,
someone’s got to stay and man the fort
.

Cobb made that fateful phone call from this very room. Up until then, the distance in our relationship was a letdown, but he was who he was. Bottom line, Cobb simply cared for his patients too much. I learned to acquiesce. What choice did I have? Then came the call that changed everything. By the time I hung up, my desire to renounce my name and never speak to him again was final. Time may have softened the impact and provided some sort of perspective, but with Cobb’s passing, any chance for reconciliation disappeared. Doris will always be an unapologetic Cobb groupie. How do I get
my
side of the story across? Here, in this town, my ugly past seems determined to reach out and snag me. I am the man who chose to run, and now I’ve been wrenched to a dead stop. If I’m being honest, worse than the prying eyes and the slanderous chatter, there’s the fear of having to finally face myself and what I have done.

Toby’s growl maintains the slow and steady beat of a metronome with every pass in front of his cage as, for the umpteenth time, I read the words from the statutes.
Without first having obtained a license from the board
. I look up and make the mistake of catching the terrier’s eye. He stares at me with such evil intent it’s like he’s pointing a paw in my face before drawing it across his furry throat in the manner of a knife. I guess he’s feeling better. Time to give Greer an update and a chance to come clean. I dial his number, but it goes straight to voice mail. Damn. I leave a message that hits the highlights—macadamia nuts, road to recovery, call back later.