The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel (35 page)

To my relief, Amy begins stepping back out of her truck. I push on. “I had … well … hoped, perhaps you and I could …”

That’s when I notice that she’s clutching a large plaid blanket in her hand. And, once again, I’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion.

“It’s Clint’s favorite blanket. We forgot it last night. I was just bringing it in for her. What do you mean,
you would have stayed
?”

“Cyrus.”

The scratchy holler comes from behind me. I spin around and spy the familiar orange dot glowing in the darkness.

“Cyrus. Doc Lewis says he needs you. Says it’s urgent.”

I think Doris referring to me by my first name is more frightening than the prospect of confronting Mr. Critchley.

Turning back to Amy, I say, “Um … look … I want to explain everything. You still want to grab something to eat, later?”

Amy hesitates, her expression giving nothing away. I’m rooted to the spot, more paralyzed than frozen, my heart in limbo.

“I’d love to,” she says.

She could have said “of course” or “sounds like a plan,” but she slipped in that word,
love
. For a reason?

“Assuming you stop gawking at me and get on with seeing all your new clients.”

My tongue is Super Glued to the roof of my mouth. Then she smiles and I want to hug her, no, I want to kiss her, but I dare not push my luck.

“Cyrus, did you hear what I said?”

For a woman with what must be a limited lung capacity, Doris has a surprisingly commanding voice. I slip-slide my way back to the front door.

“Thanks, Doris.”

Arms folded across her chest, cigarette bobbing between her lips, she almost lets me go. Almost. I’m halfway through the front door, and though her words are muffled by the sound of the crowd, I swear she says, “Nice speech.”

I look back but fingers like tarantula legs alight on my shoulder.

“Dr. Mills, you had me worried,” says Mr. Critchley. “I thought you might be running away from your responsibilities.”

Neither of us smiles, and I realize he’s not joking.

“Did working a Saturday make all the difference? Mr. Greer’s article mentioned a free clinic, so I assume you must have already met your financial quota for the week.”

Critchley’s confidence that I have failed almost seeps from his pores. I feel the room full of pet lovers at my back. Yes, many of them will have been drawn by the freebies—the booze, the checkup—but, bottom line, they were drawn to Bedside Manor because this practice has always been rooted in how much it cares about the animals in their lives.

“Do we really have to do this here? Right now?” I’m almost whispering, wanting to spare my clients more than myself.

Critchley doesn’t even deliberate. “I think it best to get this over, don’t you?” Then, barely able to contain his smile, he says, “Don’t make me ask for the check.”

Anybody who tells you money is the root of all evil doesn’t have any
.

“What did you say?” Critchley asks.

I look away and feel the pull of the old imaginary itch at the back of my head. But this time I resist it, meet the attorney’s weaselly eyes, and say, “I don’t have it.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I said I don’t have it.”

“Yes you do, Cyrus,” says Lewis, suddenly at my side, handing me a check and a pen. “It’s all filled out, you just need to sign it.”

In a daze I scribble my signature and hand it over.

“What?” Lewis’s question could be aimed at either Critchley or me. My expression is rooted in confusion. I imagine Critchley’s is rooted in skepticism.

“Don’t worry, the check won’t bounce,” says Lewis. Then he gestures to Doris as she steps back inside. “Our … office manager … assures me that she has taken in more than enough money in outstanding debt just this evening to easily cover our first payment.” And then, though I’m sure Lewis means it in the nicest possible way, he slaps the defeated attorney on the back and says, “Cheer up, Mr. Critchley. If the folks of Eden Falls are happy to support Bedside Manor, perhaps you should as well.”

Critchley looks like a man who bet all his money on black just as the roulette ball lands on red.

“Mr. Critchley, I didn’t know you had a pet?” It’s Ginny Weidmeyer to the rescue, and based on the speed of the attorney’s recovery I can only assume that the Weidmeyer estate gets a lot of personal attention from the folks at Green State Bank. “Can I get you a drink? Something to eat?” She gestures to the waiter, but Peter Greer arrives first with Toby in his arms. Perhaps Greer has discovered Ginny is a free agent. Perhaps the Jack Russell will lunge for Mr. Critchley’s jugular. Much as I’d love to find out, I step back and pull Lewis to one side.

“What are you doing? We don’t have the money.”

“Yes, we do,” says Lewis. “I just made sure Doris worked a little harder on the bad debt.”

“How?”

“By convincing her she’d be unemployed if we didn’t come up with the money. You said it yourself, no one knows better than Doris which clients are stalling, hoping we’ll go belly up. And who do you think was feeding Bobby Cobb with all the details of daily life in Eden Falls, the ones he always seemed to know, the ones that made his care feel that much more personal?”

Doris.
Everybody knows everybody in Eden Falls
.

“If you know who’s planning on buying a new car, if you know who can afford to get her nails done every week, you know who can pay their vet bill. And let’s not forget the seedy details certain pet owners might prefer to keep quiet.”

“Sounds a bit like blackmail.” I catch a glimpse of Doris in the crowd. She must have heard me because her look says I will need to be punished. “But let’s call it strategic commerce.”

Suddenly the long arm of the law reaches out and grabs me.

“Okay, you’re old Doc Cobb’s son,” says Chief Devito, “but I’m still having a hell of a time placing you.”

I’m only half listening because to the side and behind him, a group of individuals have most of my attention. There’s Brendon Small, an unspoken thank-you written across his face. There’s Anne Small, her eyes puffy and bloodshot, beginning to cry again, and between them and headed my way, Emily and her dog, Frieda.

I see a grinning golden retriever that made me think twice. I see a family getting a second chance. And, as I glance back at Devito, I see an opportunity I simply cannot resist. “Hey, Chief, ‘
say hello to my little friend
!’ ”

Then I spot Ethel Silverman and Kai, letting everyone around her know that I give away free dog food. There’s Crystal Haggerty and Puck, honing in on a frightened young man with a chocolate Lab puppy cradled in his arms, and though Crystal is clearly on the prowl, I overhear her mentioning that I have a gift when it comes to their particular breed of dog.

My graduation certificate heads our way and Lewis makes a grab for it

“What are you going to do with this, now everyone’s seen it?”

He passes it to me, and the name
Cobb
jumps out at me, but this time in a good way. “I’m going to hang it up in the exam room. Same with the photographs from the basement. I just wish … stupid … changing my name … it feels so … embarrassing, so overly dramatic and immature.”

Lewis waves the notion away. “It’s no different from Harry Carp calling every dog he’s ever had Clint. It’s a name. Who cares if you’re Cobb or Mills? All that matters is the person behind the name. All that matters is you’re here.”

This shouldn’t feel like forgiveness but it does, and I’m grateful.

“But,” he adds, “you need to sort out this problem with your license.”

“I know. And I’m going to. As soon as I find another way to pay my legal fees, now that I’m not selling this place.”

Lewis cracks another smile, reaches into his jacket pocket, and, for the second time this evening, hands me a check. “Here. Do you think this will cover it?”

The word
surprise
does not do justice to my comprehension of the dollar amount scribbled in the little box and the signature of the person cutting the check—Ginny Weidmeyer. I turn in her direction, but she’s got her back to me, still talking to Mr. Critchley.

“I can’t take this. It’s a ridiculous amount.”

“Of course it is and of course you can,” says Lewis. “Ginny insists it’s not a gift and it’s not a loan. It’s simply a prepayment on veterinary services she will require for her cat, Chelsea. Don’t look so worried. She’s going to make you work for every penny.”

A week ago I would have been appalled by such a proposal. Now I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to keep Bedside Manor alive. Now I don’t deliberate. I grab Lewis by the hand, not to shake it, but to pull him into me for a hug. And you know what, I don’t feel the least bit awkward as I think about how this moment would have felt with my father, think about the name
DR. CYRUS COBB, DVM
, chiseled into my mother’s tombstone.

I pull away and say, “If you can look after this place for a few days I’ll head down to Charleston tomorrow. Get it all sorted out.”

“Be my pleasure,” says Lewis, “but, first things first.” And with this he takes a step back and addresses the room. “Ladies and gentlemen. Dr. Mills and I would like to start.”

And that’s when my life starts over, when I know I’ve made the right choice, when this
real
veterinarian turns to
his
clientele and asks, “Who’s first?”

First of all, any implication that veterinary pathologists are not
real
veterinarians is, like the rest of this book, totally fictitious. The author apologizes for any misleading or erroneous content, medical or otherwise, but this material is intended to entertain, not provide guidance to pet owners who seek answers to animal health issues.

I must thank Deb Waterman and Ellie Millard for being kind enough to read early drafts and Kiki Koroshetz, Allyson Rudolph, and Diane Aronson for their many insightful comments on everything that followed. To all the fabulous folks at Hyperion: Ellen Archer, Elisabeth Dyssegaard, Kristin Kiser, Christine Ragasa, Kathryn Hough, Bryan Christian, and Jon Bernstein, a heartfelt thanks for your vision, enthusiasm, and dedication to this project. Your collective buzz and passion for our book makes this writer feel very much at home.

Christine Pride, my editor, always believed I could make the difficult transition from nonfiction to fiction. Somehow she has shaped and transformed my writing into something that I am proud to call a novel. I continue to be blessed to have her on my side.

Jeff Kleinman, my agent, has been nothing less than amazing to work with. By turns he’s the architect, the drill sergeant, and the magician who made the impossible possible. Cheers, Jeff. Here’s to many more books together.

A big thank-you to my daughters, Emily and Whitney, and my wife, Kathy. I know I am a lucky man. Their love and support never wavers, even when I bring my laptop to the beach.

Finally, I must pay homage to our dogs, Sophie and Meg. Though I learned that Labradors eat first and ask questions later, only a fool underestimates the intelligence of a terrier; their best lesson was teaching me how these devoted creatures complete a family. You’re still with us on every walk.

Nick Trout graduated from veterinary school at the University of Cambridge in 1989. He is a staff surgeon at the prestigious Angell Animal Medical Center in Boston; the author of three books, the
New York Times
bestseller
Tell Me Where It Hurts, Love Is the Best Medicine
, and
Ever By My Side
; and he is a contributing columnist for
The Bark
magazine. He lives in Massachusetts with his wife, Kathy, and their adopted Labradoodle, Thai.

Photo by: Deborah Feingold

ALSO BY NICK TROUT

Tell Me Where It Hurts

Love Is the Best Medicine

Ever By My Side

Copyright © 2013 Nick Trout

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 1500 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

The Library of Congress has catalogued the original print edition of this book as follows:

Trout, Nick.

The patron saint of lost dogs : a novel /Dr. Nick Trout. — 1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-4013-1088-2

1. Veterinarians—Fiction.

2. Human- animal relationships—Fiction.

I. Title.

PS3620.R684P38 2013

813'.6—dc23

2012034294

ISBN: 978-1-4013-1088-2

eBook Edition ISBN: 978-1-4013-0497-3

Cover design by Georgia Morrissey

Cover photo by Corbis

First eBook Edition

Original trade paper edition printed in the United States of America.

www.HyperionBooks.com