Other People's Pets

by R. L. Maizes

  Burgling a house in the evening, La La concentrates on what belongs to the mother—clothes, purses, jewelry, scarves. She doesn’t bother selling them, dumping them in a trash can miles away. Coming home, she sees the stuffed lion on her dresser and crams it in the back of a drawer.

  Gone is her dream of reconciling with Elissa, a dull emptiness in its place. She has neither words nor tears for her disappointment, which keeps her in bed long into the morning. Any boss other than Dr. Bergman would fire her. When she manages to crawl out from under the covers, her torso feels as heavy as stone.

  Only Mo’s return gives La La comfort. She missed the cat’s contented purr and the way Mo kneaded her thighs. It took only a few warnings for the dogs to understand Mo is family. Now the cat brushes against them, marking them with her scent, and they lick her ears. La La feels a reluctant gratitude toward Elissa for the gift of the cat.

  Two weeks after her first trip to the jail, La La returns.

  “I wondered if you were ever coming back,” Zev says, as he’s brought into the visitor’s room.

  “I’m working,” La La says, but she knows Dr. Bergman would give her time off if she asked. She was in no hurry to return to the bleak facility with its stale air and long list of rules. She can’t stand seeing Zev there.

  “Don’t forget me.” Her father has a deep cut on his palm and another on his chin. The injury on his hand, he tells her, required a dozen stitches. “Psychotic prisoner. Couldn’t get his meds but had no trouble getting ahold of a knife. Place is so goddamned crowded, you can’t tell where the threats are coming from.” He steadies his hand on the table. The injury oozes yellow pus, but Zev says the wait for further medical attention is long. He hasn’t even been able to get Tylenol for the pain.

  “I’ll tell O’Bannon,” La La says. “Maybe he can help.”

  “I hate to pay him for something like this.”

  “It will hardly make a difference with what we owe. And you’re going to need your hands when you get out.” Zev gives her a look, to which she says, “To make me a mocha latte. And to do whatever legitimate work you decide to do.”

  “Exactly right.”

  Zev’s wearing a different jumpsuit. Bright orange like the earlier one but the sleeves fall well above his wrists, which are frighteningly thin and covered with small red bites, from bedbugs or some other vermin living in the jail. He scratches the bites and worries the cut on his chin.

  “You’ll get that one infected, too,” La La says.

  “What does it matter?”

  “It matters to me.”

  “I can’t always tell,” Zev says.

  La La looks toward the door. “I’m working at Dr. Bergman’s clinic until I start school.”

  “He always took better care of you than I did.”

  “You took good care of me.”

  “Not really.”

  La La reads graffiti etched into the plastic table, a series of numbers and letters that might be a code and were made with a blade. “Clem is seeing a woman named Naomi.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “You never liked him,” La La says.

  “I won’t like anyone who takes you away from me.”

  “I guess you don’t have to worry about that now.” She starts to tilt her chair back but stops herself.

  “You’ll meet someone else,” Zev says. “Even I met someone.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “No.” He closes his eyes. “She must wonder why I haven’t called. Why I didn’t stop by before I left.”

  La La imagines he’s picturing her, this woman named Julia. The life that he shared with her. She studies her empty ring finger. “I didn’t think you believed in relationships.”

  “I didn’t think so either. She surprised me.”

  “Maybe you can write to her.”

  Zev waves his uninjured hand around the room. “From here?”

  “Maybe not.”

  His fingers return to his chin, but La La doesn’t say anything. She hopes he figures out a way to protect himself. If anyone can improvise a weapon it’s him.

  “Not much to do in here but wait,” Zev says. “And remember. Things I never told you about, that I thought I forgot.” He pauses and scratches his wrist. “My mother wasn’t as bad as your mother,” he says, “but she was weak. I’ll never understand why my father treated me the way he did. The only thing I want to remember, if you want to know the truth, the only good thing left in my life, is you.” His lips tremble, and he continues. “It seems unfair, doesn’t it? Some people born into love and others … it makes me angry at God. But what good does that do? He forgot about me a long time ago.”

  La La thinks about her childhood dog, Tiny, how he arrived at their home battered. And how Black’s original owners neglected him. If there is a God, he doesn’t take care of animals, either. “Do you want other visitors?” La La says. “To help pass the time? Dr. Bergman might come if I asked him.”

  “The fewer people see me this way the better.”

  * * *

  When “Lawyers, Guns and Money” starts up on her phone a week later, La La wonders if Zev has escaped. She answers and sets the brush she’s been using to groom Mo beside her on the couch.

  “He’s going to plead guilty to felony burglary,” O’Bannon says, and La La doesn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved—perhaps a little of both. “He doesn’t want you to worry about him anymore or to interfere with your life,” the lawyer continues. “He tasted normal life in Arizona, and he wants you to have it.”

  La La knows how hard it will be for Zev to plead guilty and accept a prison sentence. Yet he’s considered not only that he might be convicted of murder, but also what would happen to her if he decided to fight the charges. The choices she’d once again have to make with O’Bannon billing for all the hours he’d spend on a trial. If Zev had stolen her life when she was a child, now he was giving it back.

  She feels a burden lift, even as she mourns for her father. With her free hand, she massages Mo’s ear.

  O’Bannon tells her he convinced the DA to drop the murder charge in exchange for the plea. The lawyer argued the family’s action in discontinuing life support was the actual cause of death. He warned the DA that defense experts would introduce doubt about whether the burglary caused the stroke. There were also the matters of the cops’ handling of Zev’s phone, which had been sloppy and potentially destroyed fingerprints belonging to a third party, and the alibi witness, who was admittedly weak. Together it had been enough. “The prosecutor will recommend a sentence of six years, to be served in a state prison. I’ve added the additional fees to Zev’s balance.”

  21

  A month later, as La La exits the clinic on a warm July day, her phone buzzes with a text. It’s Clem. Black’s sick, he writes.

  She dials his number. “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s losing his balance, and he won’t eat.”

  La La settles behind the wheel of the Mercedes. It isn’t unusual for older dogs to get a condition called vestibular syndrome, which could cause his symptoms. It looks scarier than it is. “I’ll be over as soon as I feed Mo.”

  Walking into Clem’s apartment at a little after seven o’clock that night, she’s overcome with dizziness and has to clutch the door to stay on her feet.

  Clem grabs her elbow. “Easy there.”

  When Black rises to greet her, his head angles to the side and he sways and falls face-first into the carpet. Blue hovers over him. “When did this start?” La La says.

  Clem keeps his eyes on the dog. “Last night. Scary, isn’t it?”

  “Why didn’t you call!”

  “I took him to the emergency vet, okay?”

  “I’m his emergency vet,” La La says.

  “You’re not even a veterinary student right now.”

  The words sting, but he’s right.

  “I didn’t take him to just anyone,” Clem says. “Naomi knew the doctor.
”

  “Now your girlfriend is making decisions for our dogs? That’s great.” Kneeling next to Black, La La strokes his muzzle.

  “She cares about him.”

  “Like I said, great. What did the vet say?”

  “That he probably has an ear infection. She prescribed antibiotics. Naomi said she had a dog with a similar problem, and he was fine in a few days.”

  “I really don’t want to hear what Naomi said.” Taking out her otoscope, La La examines Black’s ears. She doesn’t see signs of infection, but she might not if the problem is in the middle or inner ear. “Let me see the antibiotics.”

  Clem retrieves a bottle from the kitchen.

  La La’s head throbs. But perhaps she just has a stress headache. “We should get an MRI.”

  “What’s going on?” Sitting on the couch, Clem grabs a throw pillow.

  La La studies the bottle. “His symptoms can also be caused by a brain tumor. I just want to be cautious. Let’s see what the test results show.” Her hand on Black’s head, La La dials the emergency vet. The doctor who treated Black isn’t in, so La La asks another vet to order an MRI.

  The vet sighs. “Vestibular syndrome is often caused by an ear infection and clears up with antibiotics.”

  “I’m a fourth-year veterinary student,” La La says, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.

  “Then you know I’m right. Why do you want the test?”

  “I’m afraid it’s a tumor.” Black tries to stand again and falls.

  “Unlikely. And the test costs a fortune.”

  “I know.”

  “And he’ll have to be under complete anesthesia.”

  “Look, I know all that. We want the test.”

  “Suit yourself. We’ll make the appointment.” The vet hangs up.

  Clem hugs the pillow to his chest. “I’ll call you in the morning and tell you how he’s doing, okay?”

  “I was thinking I’d take him home with me. I want to watch him.” La La looks at the photo of Clem and the dogs. A picture of Clem and Naomi has joined it. They’re standing next to a table, arms around each other’s waists. If La La’s not mistaken, they’re in the restaurant where she and Clem got engaged. Pale and plain, Naomi has enormous green eyes similar to La La’s but that seem more content.

  “Why don’t you stay here and we’ll both watch him?”

  “I didn’t think you wanted me around.”

  “I didn’t. But now that your dad’s case is over, I guess it would be all right.” He sets the pillow aside.

  “How do you know what’s going on with my dad?” La La says.

  “Nat called.”

  “And she just happened to mention my dad pleaded guilty?”

  “She thought it might matter to me.”

  “Does it?” La La sits perfectly still, holding on to a fragile hope.

  “It doesn’t change anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It’s none of Nat’s business.”

  Clem joins her on the floor. “She knows I care about you. You know that too, right?” His voice is kind, the way it was before La La wrecked everything.

  “I’ll take Black,” she says.

  “Why don’t you take Blue, too?”

  As Clem loads Black into the Mercedes, the dog moans, and La La flinches. A tumor could be pressing on a nerve, causing Black pain. Driving away, streetlights appear as halos, and roads seem to waver. Her palms sweat. A drive that normally takes fifteen minutes stretches to forty-five.

  * * *

  They take Black for the MRI. Clem puts the charges on his credit card, the total exceeding three thousand dollars.

  “I’ll pay you back,” La La says.

  “Oh, yeah. How will you do that?”

  “Once I’m a veterinarian.”

  “I don’t want the money any sooner.”

  The radiologist sees what La La feared he would, a tumor pressing against Black’s brain stem. They schedule an appointment with an oncologist. The next morning, La La tells Kali she needs more time off.

  “You just took a day.” The senior vet tech doesn’t look up from the pills she’s counting.

  “It’s a family emergency,” La La says, her voice breaking.

  Kali returns the pills to a large bottle. “Treatment Room One,” she says. Following La La into the room, Kali closes the door and motions for La La to sit. The woman hands her a box of tissues. “What’s going on?”

  “My dog has a brain tumor.”

  The vet tech’s firm demeanor falls away. She clears her throat. “I’ll get the doctor.”

  When Dr. Bergman comes in, he sits in a chair next to La La and doesn’t say a thing. She’s grateful he doesn’t try to comfort her, saying Black’s a fighter or that she’s given him a good life. Instead, when she’s ready to talk, he listens. She tells him what they know and what they don’t. “Take as much time as you need,” he says. “We’ll advance you vacation. And let me know how it’s going. Or if there’s anything I can do.”

  The doctor’s always been there for her. When she was young, he taught her about animals and about school subjects beyond Zev’s grasp. He gave her this job though she had disappointed him. And it isn’t just him. La La considers everyone who’s helped her: the mysterious black dog who called her back from the depths of the lake; Tiny and Mo; her friend Nat; Black and Blue. She and Clem loved each other for a while. Perhaps even her father did the best he could. Though she’s always felt scarred by her mother’s absence, now La La wonders if that’s right.

  * * *

  The next day, she and Clem see the oncologist. He says they can’t operate because of the tumor’s position. Chemotherapy isn’t an option. The blood-brain barrier would keep the drugs from reaching the mass. La La doesn’t know Black’s age, but after examining him, the doctor determines he’s too old for radiation therapy. To reduce inflammation around the tumor, he prescribes prednisone. He gives them tramadol for Black’s pain.

  Her empathic abilities give La La greater diagnostic skills than other veterinarians, but she has no special talent when it comes to treatment. In the face of Black’s illness, she’s helpless.

  “Are you going to leave me, too?” she asks one night a week later as she runs a washcloth across Black’s forehead. “I’m not sure I could take it if you did. I’m not sure Blue could either.” Blue’s been dropping gifts at Black’s paws all night—a pen, puzzle pieces, a bread roll—but Black doesn’t even raise his head to sniff them. Eventually, Blue gives up and lies next to Black, licking his head. Mo, too, seems worried, sniffing Black’s head and rubbing against it.

  The dogs have always watched out for each other. Like the time Blue chased a stick thrown for another dog and was about to enter a busy road. Black corralled him, blocking his way and barking, until Blue saw the army of cars approaching. And there was the night La La dropped the bottle of Black’s antibiotics, and Blue took off with it. Recovering it, La La examined the pills. The pharmacist had filled the prescription incorrectly. Black was allergic to the medication in the bottle.

  After she and Clem broke up, Black took care of La La during the weeks he was with her. He always knew what kind of day she had and whether he should lean into her when she got home, comforting her, or bring his leash because what she needed were exercise, the smell of earth, and the luminous green of growing things. Accompanying her on a trail, he was friendly to passersby if she was in a social mood, and growled when she preferred to be left alone. He seemed as aware of her feelings as she was of his. At least he did before he got sick.

  Clem comes over after work to help. Stretching out on the floor, he presses his chest to the dog’s back. Black’s eyes stay closed and he groans. His balance is so bad they have to carry him outside to relieve himself. To tempt him to eat, La La prepares food she wouldn’t allow herself—chicken soup with rice—but Black refuses it.

  La La doesn’t invite Clem to stay over, but one night he says he just needs to rest his e
yes, and before she knows it, he’s snoring on the couch. It’s late. Through an open window, La La hears coyotes celebrating a kill and the mechanical slide of an automatic garage door. She covers Clem with an afghan threaded with dog hair, and clears a path from the couch to the bathroom, collecting squeaky toys and sharp-edged bones and depositing them in the toy basket.

  The next night, Clem arrives with an overnight bag. Though he should have asked, when La La sees the bag, she imagines it means he’s forgiven her and perhaps something more. “Naomi’s okay with this?”

  “I didn’t tell her,” he says.

  “You can get into trouble hiding things,” she says, and shrugs.

  “I suppose you can.” He sets his bag on the couch. He’s been reading about canine chiropractic, he tells her. He doesn’t think it will cure Black, but it might relieve some of the effects of the tumor and calm him.

  As Clem presses his fingers into Black’s spine, La La’s muscles relax, and she remembers how he used to adjust her, the tension of veterinary school evaporating. She wonders if he’ll ever work on her again.

  She hunts for an extra set of car keys Blue stole. When she finds them behind a couch cushion, she returns them to a bowl on the table and waits for Blue to make off with them again. Caught up with Black, they’ve been neglecting their Jesse James. Moments later, keys dangling from his mouth, Blue disappears into the bedroom. She may have to dig them up in the backyard, but she doesn’t mind if it keeps Blue occupied.

  La La puts on Johnny Cash, and Clem sings along, his voice rough-edged and deep. Mo conducts with her tail, while La La places sheets on the couch. When Clem finishes the treatment, the dog falls asleep, his legs twitching as he runs in his dream, his balance uncompromised. The adjustment has relaxed La La, too, who doesn’t have the energy to make it to her bed, lowering her head onto her arms at the kitchen table.