The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel (8 page)

“Diagnoses and cures will earn trust. I’m looking to do my job, not get friendly with pet owners. I don’t engage in irrelevant verbal fluff. Ideally, in my opinion, information about a case should be concise, pertinent, detailed and, best of all, written.”

Lewis shakes his head. “Let me tell you something—animal health care has always been about choice. It used to be about choosing which veterinarian best fit your personality. Back in the day, when Doc Cobb and I competed for business, it wasn’t enough to be a decent clinician. You had to connect with the client. You had to connect with the patient. You had to make them want to see you again. These days there’s another ugly dynamic in the mix—money. Take Healthy Paws, the competition across the valley in Patton—they care more about making money than they do about making their patients better. They’ve totally lost sight of the honor and altruism of our profession. Only the other day they had an ad in the paper offering half price spays on Wednesday and pay for two vaccines, get one free. It’s tacky, it’s demeaning, but some of your customers will buy into it. Listen to me, Cyrus, to win them over, they’re going to have to find something about you that they really, really like.”

I don’t know what to say. How can I tell Lewis I’m all about making money as well? How do I let him know the rival practice he despises will soon be the new owners of Bedside Manor? And let’s not forget, I chose to be a pathologist because I prefer to work in silence and alone. Which is not to say I’m antisocial. I want to make friends. I’m just not very good at it. Boarding school may have been great for my education but it stunted my communication skills. I was a shy Yankee boy dropped in the heart of Dixie. When kids think you sound funny, you keep your mouth shut. It’s a lot less painful to become a loner.

“Here’s your map. His name’s Harry Carp. His dog’s called Clint.”

I take the scrap of paper and work out in my head roughly where I’m going.

“He’s good for the price of the house call?” I ask.

Lewis’s sharp intake of breath is not what I want to hear.

“Harry will pay. His checks don’t bounce. Takes his time writing them is all.”

Great, more bad debt. “Hope he won’t mind if I ask for cash up front,” I say.

Lewis’s pout says, “Come on, have a heart,” but his expression slowly twists into a smile. “Think of this as part of your education, an investment in acquiring the type of skills that will pay big dividends down the line. Pet owners like sharing their concerns with fellow animal lovers. This has nothing to do with you as an individual. Here’s an opportunity to work on your … rapport.”

Unfortunately they don’t teach “rapport” in vet school, and if they did, I suspect it wouldn’t have been an easy A for me.

“You should take Doc Cobb’s old truck.”

“That dilapidated Silverado out back?” I ask.

“Yep,” says Lewis. “Though bear in mind it does have a minor problem.”

I lower my chin, let my eyes roll up to meet his, fearing the modifier
minor
.

“No reverse.”

“What?”

“Be careful how you park. Make sure you can drive straight out. Harry’s driveway has a big turnaround. You’ll be fine.”

“Maybe it’d be better if you go instead?”

Lewis consults his wristwatch, does that chewing thing with his lower lip.

“I’ve got an appointment,” he says. “A haircut, in twenty minutes.”

He makes this information sound serious.

“There’s a barbershop in town?”

Lewis grabs his coat from behind the counter. “No, of course not,” he says. “Mrs. Lewis has been cutting my hair on the first Tuesday of every month since we got married. Take my bag of tricks, okay?”

He turns to leave but spins back around to face me. “Strive for a friendly chat, not an interrogation. Try to make more eye contact and stop fidgeting so much with your hands. Acting distant and detached might suit you, but it can come across as disinterested. And when that happens, mark my words, clients will go elsewhere.”

Warning delivered, he walks out the front door, leaving me to work on that imaginary itch at the back of my neck.

Before I head off to Harry Carp’s, I check in on my desperado retriever. I find Frieda in the living room, sprawled across the couch. Presumably her disregard for getting up on furniture is a relic of her former life with Mr. Charcoal Suit. I ignore her greeting—rooting snout, wagging tail, and tap dance moves that are more Tin Man than Fred Astaire—brush golden tumbleweeds off the cushions, and scrutinize their surface for evidence of any accidents. Not a wet patch in sight. Why does she go crazy when I try to stop petting her?

Fearing a repeat of last night’s unwanted publicity I take her out for a covert pee via the small deck off the second-floor kitchen and a wooden outdoor stairway that leads down to the backyard. Instinctively Frieda goes all mountain goat on me, negotiating the icy steps, cautious with her footing, perforating the crusty layer of frost topping the snow like she’s traversing crisp meringue. It’s obvious Frieda loves being off leash, bounding around and digging to China. I, on the other hand, am miserable—shivering as the biting wind paralyzes my face, convinced the tip of my nose has already succumbed to frostbite. What I wouldn’t give for a warm, briny breeze, the sound of lapping waves, or the smell of magnolias. I admit it: I’m weak, indoctrinated by a climate that doesn’t require you to put on enough clothes for thirty minutes so that you can withstand the elements for thirty seconds. Sure, all this snow can be pretty to look at and festive for the holidays, but what do you do when your barren white world refuses to turn green for another five months? Give me the stifling humidity of a Charleston July any day.

Once again it takes Frieda forever to find the perfect spot, but once again she performs her ablutions without a flaw. There’s been no evidence of excessive or inappropriate urination whatsoever. In different circumstances I’d suggest a blood test, analyze a sample of urine, but I don’t have the time, the money, or the inclination. Taking her to a retriever rescue group is the best I can do. And here’s the kicker—I have to do it anonymously, which means no chance of any business-boosting chitchat from fanatical dog lovers touched by the dedication of the new vet in town. At most I get a little good karma, and last time I checked, good karma won’t pay my bills.

Clearly old Doc Cobb didn’t care for his truck. It’s mostly rust with patches of black paint here and there. The muffler is held in place by bungee cords, and there are 178,000 miles on the clock. It does boast four-wheel drive, but as I climb into the cab I’m forced to acknowledge how I don’t have to adjust the position of the seat or the steering wheel—a perfect fit. The engine turns over first time. I haven’t driven a stick in years and as I depress the clutch and slip it into first, I note the letter
R
. How will I ever remember this vehicle can only move forward?

Turning left out of the practice’s lot I head toward town, passing a bullet-ridden sign that confirms I have entered Eden Falls. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the name Eden Falls is a glaring misnomer. For starters, there’s nothing remotely divine, idyllic, or biblical about the place (not counting a white wooden Rockwellian church). There’s not a park or a playing field let alone a fabled garden. And technically speaking the word
Falls
, plural, is incorrect, thanks to a rockslide nearly eighty years ago, which reduced a mediocre tourist attraction to a disappointing and forgettable “Fall,” singular.

Main Street is a twenty-five-mile-per-hour two-lane without a single traffic light or stop sign. In a vehicle, keeping to the speed limit, a driver can sneeze, wipe his nose, and cruise straight through, missing it all and missing nothing. This is the first time I’ve driven through town since coming back and I doubt much has changed since I was last here—there’s an art gallery, a couple of antiques stores, a full-service gas station, and a convenience store located in a converted red barn. At the heart of the metropolis lies the Miss Eden Falls Diner. Last time I was there was with my mom when I was fifteen, one week before I was sent away to boarding school. I still remember my order: grilled cheese, French fries, and a hot fudge sundae. Mom had a Reuben, apple pie à la mode.

That Eden Falls still exists is mainly due to its proximity to the most northerly private school in the lower forty-eight, Eden Falls Academy. The school provides jobs, and the traffic of visiting parents has ensured the survival of a number of questionable lodging and dining facilities that, in a more competitive environment, probably should have gone out of business. These include Vera’s Bed and Breakfast, the Harlequin Inn and Cottages (which sounds so much better than what it really is—The Checkerboard Motel), and the Inn at Falls View Farm, which, though the fanciest of a bad bunch, now offers vistas of something akin to a quarry rather than cascading water.

I suppose some might describe the town as quaint, even cozy. It does boast a covered wooden bridge that crosses the Missiquoi River as it meanders along the southern edge of town. And just beyond the bridge lies Garvey’s Nursery and Garden Center. I have fond childhood memories of Garvey’s. For a kid with no interest in fishing, hunting, or skiing, Garvey’s was like going to Disney World. I’m talking about a miniature golf course, a miniature railway, a corn maze in the fall, and a petting zoo complete with cows, llamas, potbellied pig, miniature horse, goats, and chickens. Not that I ever engaged in the act of petting. I was quite content to observe the behavior of the different species, especially around precocious children. Now, a lifetime later, this menagerie fills me with dread because, according to Lewis, Garvey’s farm animals are overseen by the doctors of Bedside Manor. I have my hands full with dogs and cats. What am I supposed to do with a llama?

It’s about a mile drive to the center of town and, though I’m loath to admit it, the surrounding countryside is a winter wonderland postcard. Vistas of perfect blue meet a white-feathered forest that basks in liquid sunshine. I forgot to bring sunglasses. Instinctively I reach for the visor. What visor? Funny, I’m squinting, it’s ten below, and the truck’s heater is all about noise not heat, and still, there’s something pleasing about the novelty of going out into the world to attend to a patient.

I notice a woman and a child loitering by a lamppost and slow down to see what they are doing. The two of them are duct-taping a poster in place.

MISSING:
Frieda Fuzzypaws

There’s a picture of a golden retriever, there’s an offer of a reward, and there’s a phone number to call.

I pull over, watching them in my cracked rearview mirror. The little girl and the woman get into a car, head to the next lamppost, and put up another poster. Frieda Fuzzypaws is a name that could only have come from a little girl who likes to paint pink nail polish on her best friend’s paws.

I turn around and look down the street in the direction the pair is walking from. There is a poster plastered to every pole.

I pull out my cell phone, read the number, and dial.

As the number rings I stare into the mirror, waiting for the call to go through, for me to see the woman in the reflection rustle in her coat pocket and pick up.

“Hello. Hello.”

I hear a voice but the woman in the mirror continues to help the girl tape another poster in place.

“Who is this?”

I can’t speak.

“Is this about the dog?”

I hang up. In the mirror the woman moves closer to the girl and gives her a hug. My fingers begin tapping out a nervous rhythm against the steering wheel. I recognized the voice straightaway. The man in the charcoal suit.

Calm down
, I think
. Weigh the facts
.

Obviously the number on the poster is not the woman’s cell phone number, but probably her home phone number. I call the number and charcoal suit man picks up, meaning this woman, this child, and Frieda Fuzzypaws live together. The poster says “MISSING,” as in lost or escaped, therefore the woman and the little girl believe this to be true, which means charcoal suit man created this lie.

Now what am I supposed to do? How do I hide a dog everybody is looking for and how can I come forward with a dog I’m supposed to have put to sleep?

Heading out of town, I see the last of the residential properties slipstream behind me as the truck lumbers toward a series of switchbacks. A man who never learned to drive in snow should be concentrating on the road, but my mind is elsewhere. I don’t do impetuous acts, but there’s a part of me that wants to forget this house call. It wants to find out where the woman and the little girl live, deposit Frieda at their front door, ring the doorbell, and run. But the analytical, investigative part of me says not so fast. This is a case begging to be worked in the wrong direction, from back to front. Isn’t this what I’m supposed to be good at? Like I said to Lewis, my mind naturally prefers starting at the last chapter. I already know whodunit, or rather, who wanted it done. Frieda is our victim and, as far as I can tell, blameless of the crime she’s supposed to have committed. Everybody’s looking for her. Now, if I take her to an adoption center or a rescue group, chances are she’ll be returned to the man who wants her destroyed. I doubt he’ll risk another visit to a veterinarian. He’ll probably take her out into the woods and do it himself. No, the man in the charcoal suit is our wannabe killer. He and I are the only people who know what would have happened. To prevent it from happening again, I need the answer to a far more complicated question. Why?

I miss the turnoff to Harry Carp’s. It’s easily done. All that marks the address are hand-painted numbers on a solitary mailbox bearing baseball bat bruises. The unplowed driveway hidden among the evergreens was completely obscured. I check the cracked rearview mirror of the truck before making a U-turn. The fairground fun house reflection plays tricks with my features, but it cannot hide the dark circles of unease and insomnia around my eyes.

Wheels spinning and back end fishtailing, I work my way up a narrow tree-lined driveway, locking onto a previous set of tire tracks, following them to an A-frame cabin that has all but disappeared into its woodsy surroundings. Lewis was right, there is plenty of room. Who needs reverse?