The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel (32 page)

There’s not much that gets past Amy. “Look, I don’t want her to struggle or panic. I’m going to titrate it very carefully.”

I say this casually, with certainty, like a doctor in control, even though Amy has unsettled me. I don’t know if I’m actually prepared for what I’m about to do. I’m not sure I will ever be. I pull over our antiquated anesthetic machine with its supply of oxygen and grab a selection of tubes to place in Clint’s airway if she decides to stop breathing for herself. There are probably a dozen other things I should be doing, and the fact that this is the only preparation that comes to mind does little to improve my confidence. “Right then, you want to stay, Harry, or you want to take a seat in the waiting room?”

Harry shakes his head and hugs Clint a little tighter.

“That’s fine, but maybe you can pat her back end. Amy, I need you to hold her head up, neck outstretched as far as you can go, giving me a straight shot down her throat.”

Amy does as she is told and I inject a small amount of milky liquid into the catheter in her vein, wait ten seconds, and see how Clint relaxes into Amy’s grip. I press a finger down on what’s left of Clint’s rock-chewed incisors and appreciate the slack jaw of a semiconscious dog.

Pulling Clint’s tongue toward me I push the aluminum tube dripping with K-Y jelly into the back of her throat, gently advancing it down and down. It keeps going and Clint’s not swallowing or fighting and her color looks fine, and Amy’s eyes begin to widen, as though I’m performing some bizarre sword-swallowing trick with her grandfather’s dog and suddenly, I stop.

“I think I’m there,” I say, sniffing the open end of the tube in my hand. I inhale deeply, drawing in the fetid air of rotten tissue that tells me I’m in the right place. I wince.

“Now what?” asks Harry, his head turned away, his arms clutching Clint around her hips as though he thinks she might be about to buck and leap off the table.

I’m not listening. I’m feeling. I have no point of reference for what I’m about to do but I close my eyes and see a shard of pork chop bumping up against the end of my aluminum tube. I poke it, feel its resistance, and know I can’t coax it, can’t simply persuade it to let go and drop into the stomach, so I push, I push hard, harder than I ever imagined possible.

I wonder if Harry notices the way Clint has come around enough to squirm, to fight whatever it is I’m doing to her. I wonder if Amy thinks she hears the rip, the bone driven into Clint’s chest, bouncing off the inside of the dog’s rib cage, a fermenting broth of bacteria basting her heart and lungs. The thing is, they don’t feel what I feel, a distinctive pop, and then Clint letting go with a moan of relief as the resistance disappears, the bone pushed on and into her stomach.

I have the tube out of her throat in seconds. “I think I did it. I felt it go.”

Amy’s expression tells me she doesn’t know whether I’m talking about a tear in the esophagus or the bone being pushed into the stomach.

Harry hears none of this ambiguity. He’s up and coming toward me, the look on his face already telling me his version. “She’s all set, right?”

“Maybe … I don’t know. We should take another X-ray to make sure I didn’t cause any damage.”

“I thought you said you might not find a leak even if there is one,” says Amy.

“I did, but I was talking about the liquid barium. Now I’m talking about air. If there’s a tear, air will get through where the bone used to be. We should see it on the X-ray.”

Harry can’t believe it, can’t believe it’s not over, that there’s still another hurdle to jump. He reaches out to the exam table for support.

“Give me a hand.” Once more Amy helps me to position Clint and once more I run the film. Clint seems to be hanging in there, not better, not worse, but who knows what gore exists deep inside. It’s got to be the longest four minutes of my life. I can’t imagine how long it feels for Harry.

When the film finally falls from the processor, I don’t want to touch it. It’s like the letter from the college of your dreams—acceptance or rejection—about to change your life either way, and though you want to rip it open you’re hanging on to this moment, this now, because it might be the only hope you have left.

I pick up the film, clear a space on the viewing box, and Amy slides in on my right, Harry actually leaving Clint’s side to hover on my left. The three of us share the silence as I put the image up on the screen.

No one speaks. If they’re looking at me, I don’t notice because tunnel vision makes everything fade to black except the shades of gray inside Clint’s chest. Overall impressions distort into details, what I can’t see more important than what I can. I can’t see black striations, black commas, black pockets, black bubbles, or black lines. But beyond this moment, and most important of all, my mind’s eye does not see an old man sitting next to an empty dog bed where his best friend used to lie.

“Looks good,” I say, as though that’s it, no big deal, just another day at the office when what I really feel is the crash, the aftermath of adrenaline being turned off, the switch thrown. And for the second time today I want to drop to my knees.

Harry’s on me like a long-lost relative, hugging me to him. My arms are trapped by my side and his tears run down my neck. I’m looking over at Amy. She hesitates, takes me in as I’m being bear-hugged to death by her grandfather, and an understated delight begins to shape her lips. I don’t know how best to describe it.

Harry releases his grip and moves past me, back to Clint. He’s in her face. “You’re going to be fine, my love. I might never forgive myself, but you’re going to be fine.”

I join him. “I’m going to continue her on fluids, start some antibiotics, antacids, and give her something for the pain.”

Harry looks up at me, and I can tell there’s no point in me trying to warn him that we need to keep a close eye on her for the next couple of days.

“Doc, tell me, what can I do to thank you?”

I look down at him, clinging to his dog, relief written across his face, and I think to myself,
you just did, this moment, this scene, this memory, it’s all the thanks I will ever need
.

Then, as I sense Amy closing in behind me, a reckless idea begins to evolve and I find myself cupping a hand to Harry’s ear.

“You could convince your granddaughter to come out to dinner with me.”

D-Day has finally arrived, and in my world the
D
could stand for
dreaded, debt-ridden
, or
doom
, take your pick. Somehow, by close of business, Bedside Manor needs to have generated enough income in my first week on the job to fend off the money-grubbing Mr. Critchley and his repo men from Green State Bank. And by my reckoning, despite the hush money from Crystal Haggerty, we’re still not even close.

Not that I’ve given up. I’ve managed to establish a new line of credit with our medical supply company. I’ve signed a new maintenance contract for the X-ray and the anesthetic equipment. I’ve convinced the medical waste facility to give us a second chance. Doris swears she’s making headway with the bad debt, doing what she does best—badgering. I’ve got three estimates pending from contractors to convert the supply room into a second exam room. I’ve got Clint curled in my lap, her tail keeping a beat as she devours a slurry of liquidized dog food as if it were filet mignon. And, last but not least, I’ve got a seven-thirty dinner reservation for two at the Inn at Falls View Farm.

To be honest, this positive attitude has nothing to do with dreamy notions of a financial miracle in my future or Critchley saying, “Hey, no worries, you can slide another week.” It’s driven by Lewis, and the way he seemed irrationally undaunted by the prospect of failing to make our good faith payment or taking on more credit when I discussed my plans with him this morning. “Doris tells me I’m busy, booked solid, so do what you need to do, but make sure you’re around to see your cases later this afternoon.”

He had folded his arms across his chest and delivered a stiff downward nod, like a father who insists his son get home before curfew. I didn’t question the demand or his confidence in our future beyond close of business today. I assured him I’d be there. Even if I still feared the waiting room would remain as empty as always whenever it was my turn to be on duty.

By three o’clock, convinced I’m on a roll, I take a shot at redemption. I drive out to the home of Ginny Weidmeyer. And don’t think this new outward vitality makes my fears and foibles any less. I’m still bracing for the call from the Vermont State Veterinary Board and still haven’t heard any word from Brendon Small regarding Frieda. If the last twenty-four hours have taught me anything, it’s the realization that “out of sight, out of mind” is a Band-Aid on a wound that needs to be stitched up. I was the veterinary pathologist who embraced an isolation that deadened his pain. But the past is a bully who always circles back, picking away at the weakness of an easy mark. Eventually you can’t ignore it, leaving you with two options—run away, or face it head-on. Facing Ginny Weidmeyer is the right thing to do, and besides, I need all the practice I can get learning to say “I’m sorry.”

Lewis told me he left several messages with Ginny but she hadn’t called him back, and as I reach the ornate fountain outside the mansion I see it’s no longer running, Triton’s gaping maw is now dripping with icicles. The black Range Rover with the ONFYA license plate is gone.

Have Ginny, Chelsea, and Steven absconded to St. Barts? Leave the unpleasantries to the lawyers?

I ring the doorbell.
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
has been replaced by the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth.

The door opens and there’s Ginny—immaculate makeup, cashmere sweater, cheerful silk scarf around her neck—with Chelsea in her arms.

“Ms. Weidmeyer, you’re here … sorry … I thought you might be … I should have called, but I wanted to tell you in person how very sorry I am about what …”

Ginny raises a hand, stopping me in my tracks, but it comes over as a polite request. “Come in, Cyrus. I need to show you something.”

Her use of my first name is not lost on me, neither is the sadness in her voice as she leads me to a different sofa in front of a different fireplace in her country club of a living room.

“Sit down and take a look at this.” She pats a cushion next to her. I do as I’m told as she opens the lid on a laptop, angling the screen my way. The screen is divided into four images of high-definition, surveillance camera footage. There’s the white rug in front of a fireplace, the bottom of a king-size bed, an aerial view of a room full of saddles and bridles, and a tiled floor featuring food and water bowls.

“These are the four most likely places to find Chelsea at any given time. When I’m out, all I have to do is check my cell phone. Usually I just use real time, but I went back to see what had been recorded.” She presses a button on the keypad. “The screen in the bottom right-hand corner.”

A digital clock and calendar tells me it’s from two mornings ago. There’s a hand picking up a bowl and returning it to the floor a few seconds later piled high with brown, meaty mounds of canned cat food. Chelsea pounces as soon as it hits the floor.

“Doesn’t look much like dry prescription cat food, does it?” She closes the lid, places the laptop off to one side, and turns to me. Ginny holds Chelsea like a mother cradles a child, the cat facing the other way, resting her furry chin on Ginny’s shoulder. I think of the pictures in the collage, of Ruth carrying me, so instinctive for a mother, so strange for a cat, and yet Chelsea seems to have come to appreciate the security of this embrace, come to love it even. She purrs into the palm of Ginny’s left hand, and I realize it’s missing. The engagement ring is gone.

Ginny notices me noticing. “Do you think it’s possible to fall in love at any age?” She wiggles the naked ring finger. “Believe me, I know jewelry and I know a fake when I see one. I had hoped he wanted to impress me but couldn’t afford to do it.” She takes her time, and we both know she needs to get this out. “I’ve never thought of myself as a … cougar. Steven happened to be a younger man, a little lost, in need of direction, but full of big ideas and on his way up. He was always so appreciative, always armed with a compliment, and it’s invigorating, to know someone finds me attractive at my age.” She laughs. “I confess, I loved being the subject of gossip, I loved being defiant, chasing the forbidden fruit. It was infectious, intoxicating. It felt like I was recapturing my youth, like getting a second wind.”

For a second I see her lost in the high, but it’s brief. “The trouble with being seduced is you no longer see what’s in front of your eyes. When you get addicted, you begin to enable. You convince yourself that your friends are wrong and you’re right because they don’t know him like you do. Sometimes you’ll believe anything not to be alone.”

She smiles, lips closed, a joyless smile of a woman grateful to be heard. “You made me see what was right in front of me, Cyrus, and you saw the truth because you weren’t thinking of me.” She reaches forward to pat my forearm. “You stuck your nose in and your neck out and you had everything to lose, but you kept going for the sake of Chelsea’s health. You know your father begged me to be supportive if you came back, supportive and … tolerant. He needn’t have worried. You did exactly what he would have done, you focused on what matters most, and I will never forget that.”