by Nick Trout
“Oh, yeah. I seem to attract challenging cases.”
Amy deposits the spoon in her empty cup. “I believe Fancies also sells earplugs.”
I get the reference to the collie’s incessant barking. “Gilligan is a little… nervous.”
“That’s the best you can do, ‘nervous’? Muzzled by doctor-patient confidentiality?”
This is the Amy I was first attracted to—her sharp wit.
“And I hear you were asking after me the other night,” she says.
“Uh… yes, well, only because—”
“I’m glad. I’d be disappointed if you hadn’t.”
It takes all of my willpower not to grin and ask: “You would?”
She sighs. “About the other night, the phone call at the bar. I was in a state of shock. I was distracted, and yes, rude. I’m sorry.”
Instead of simply accepting her apology, my socially awkward silence is met with, “Well, what was your excuse?”
Whoa! Amy never gives me any room to hide. Now I’ve got to articulate my feelings. I’m reminded of a quote from the late Robert Altman’s movie The Player: I like words and letters, but I’m not crazy about complete sentences.
“I guess I’m not used to being around a”—careful, Cyrus—“strong woman.”
No physical blow to my body, but her eyes still pack a punch.
“You’re going to have to clarify strong, ’cause I’m pretty sure this has nothing to do with what I can bench press.”
“I mean confident, assertive.”
“And you find this threatening?”
“Different… but in a good way.” Despite clasping a cup full of ice cream, I run a sweaty hand through my hair. “Professionally and, yes, socially, I’ve enjoyed a somewhat isolated existence.”
“Monastic or hermitic?”
I try not to smile.
“Look,” she says, elbows on the table, lips hovering over interlaced fingers. “Most men use their sensitivity as a way to impress, if not seduce. Thankfully you’re not one of those men. Your actions speak much louder than your words.”
There’s an awkward silence. Was that a compliment?
“That phone call. It was someone I haven’t heard from in years. Someone… special… in my life. Last night was a complete surprise, a big deal. I know it’s hard, Cyrus, but please, I’m asking you to leave it at that for now.”
Oh dear. How I hate an unsolved mystery.
“I can’t help being curious.”
“Don’t be,” she snaps, and then, softening, “Look, I’m happy to take your jealousy as a compliment and not a flaw.”
Special. Big deal. These are not “leave it at that” words. She wants me to back off but still be enamored? I stew, my argument for asking further questions building on the back of my tongue.
In my unease she tenses, straightens up, and I catch a crinkle of disappointment ruffling her forehead, as if she might have read the signs all wrong, that I might not be as interested in her as she thought. She shakes it off, perhaps putting on a brave face, and like a fool moving in slow motion, I miss my chance to set her straight.
“Anyway,” she says, “my sources tell me you were out on a date?”
It’s a daring comeback, her timing perfect, less of a deflection and more of a broadside.
“Well… I… don’t think I’d call it a date,” I say, my chuckle embarrassingly fake.
“Mary said you were with a strikingly attractive woman who couldn’t stop trying to undress you with her eyes.”
“Oh no, really, she was… no… and attractive? Mary exaggerates.”
“Drop-dead gorgeous was Mary’s actual description. Also head turning and sizzling hot. Don’t act so surprised, you’re an eligible bachelor. At least you would be if you’d tame that stupid cowlick on the top of your head, relax around the opposite sex, and learn how to use a napkin.”
She points to the corner of her own lip, inviting me to attend to a smudge of fudge sauce.
“Eligible bachelor?”
She rocks in her seat, ready with the caveat. “For these parts.”
If Mary or some other patron from the diner had recognized Doc Honey, Amy would have used her name. It seems we were both out with people who shall remain anonymous. At least, that is, until Honey gives her lecture at the Knights of Columbus.
“Unlike you, my meeting was not special or a big deal, definitely more business than pleasure.”
She squirms, ever so slightly. Jealousy is making me more snide than quick-witted.
“Huh, will you be seeing her again?”
This may prove disastrous, but I can’t help myself. “For someone who doesn’t like questions, you’re asking an awful lot of them.”
She raises a “well, well” eyebrow above her brown eye. “Let’s say it’s a woman’s prerogative.”
I crack a smile and, to my relief, so does she. Maybe I haven’t totally blown this after all. Maybe now would be a good time to toss out a compliment.
“Last night,” I say, “I really wanted to tell you… to tell you how much—”
My cell phone rings. I try to press on.
“Coming home to Eden Falls has been, well, eye-opening, but meeting you has been equally—”
“Don’t you think you should take that?”
I know I’m staring, and maybe my fixed eyes come across as disturbingly wired, but I want to convey, “No, this is more important.”
With a sigh, I pick up, answering in a series of cryptic grunts and yeses, and ending with a weary “on my way.”
Amy regards me. “Business or pleasure?”
“Business. Sorry, I’m needed back at Bedside Manor.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, some kind of emergency.”
“Oh, with who?”
“Someone called Mrs. Peebles and her dog, Crispin. You know them?”
Amy does a double take, scrapes back in her chair, and gets to her feet.
“Guess I made a mistake,” she says.
The tension drops like an invisible curtain between us.
“I’m not with you.”
She grabs her coat from the back of her chair and puts it on.
“Like I said, I can pretend the jealousy is a compliment. But not lying. If you’re meeting Miss Drop-Dead Gorgeous again, have the decency to tell me to my face. I know for a fact that Crispin died three months ago!”
10
IDON’T KNOW WHERE TO BEGIN. AMY WAS CORRECT, but so was I. Crispin the dog has been dead for several months, yet he is my emergency patient. How can this be? Sitting in my examination room is a distraught eighty-three-year-old Mavis Peebles, being comforted by her daughter, “Patricia, call me Trish,” and a well-behaved, wonderfully silent yellow Labrador that has been stuffed by a taxidermist. Though I’m troubled by the wobbly castor fitted to the dog’s left hind paw, I suspect the cause for concern is the small, lifeless creature cradled within the old woman’s knotty hands.
“Donny Kutz usually sorts out these little setbacks,” says Trish, “only he’s wintering in Florida and won’t be back until late April.”
“Donny Kutz?” I ask, trying not to stare at the way Mrs. Peebles rhythmically strokes what might be the furry exterior of a small pocket pet, like a ferret. It’s hard to tell.
“The taxidermist. Lives down near Stowe. We figured you’d be the next best thing.”
“But Mrs.—”
“Trish, please.”
“Trish… with respect, I’m a doctor. I work on living animals.” At least I do now.
“Of course,” says Trish. “We just… well, Mom thought you could try, being as Crispin was a patient here. We understand.”
I glance over at the open file on my exam table. Back in October, Crispin was put to sleep for inoperable cancer, the details of the dog’s final months documented in my late father’s chicken scratch. His writing is almost illegible. Almost. One particular phrase jumps out and snags me—great dog, great owner.
>
Trish bends over her mother, preparing to lift her onto her feet.
“Why don’t you show me what’s wrong?” I ask.
The younger woman catches herself. She’s probably in her fifties despite the standard age-defying tricks—professionally dyed hair cut short, silk scarf to hide the neck, bright red nail polish to draw the eye away from the pronounced veins on the back of the hands. She has chunky diamond studs in her ears. Conversely, Mavis has more gray than dye, more visible scalp than hair. She probably weighs about ninety pounds in her overcoat, her hand-knitted woolen scarf less about providing warmth than reinforcing her frail neck and preventing whiplash. I notice the twisted and gnarled joints of her hands doing all the talking—boutonniere deformity of the thumbs, swan-neck deformity of the fingers—classic signs of end-stage rheumatoid arthritis. She wears skin-colored hearing aids.
“Show him, Mom.”
Trish steps aside as Mavis takes the shaggy weasel in one hand and shakes it at me like a lank pom-pom.
“His tail broke off,” says Mavis, her voice little and uncertain.
As three pairs of eyes stare at me (one pair particularly unnerving), waiting for a response, I realize that I may want to run screaming from the room, but no part of me wants to laugh. Mavis is trembling, and though the possibility of her suffering from early Parkinson’s crosses my mind, she appears genuinely scared. It’s obvious Trish feels awkward and embarrassed to be here, but a burden of responsibility to her mother prevails. Why is the daughter indulging a bizarre desire to keep a dead dog—how best to put this?—alive?
“Mind if I take a look?”
I reach forward; Mavis Peebles is reluctant to let go.
Limber tail syndrome, often seen in out-of-shape Labradors that swim in cold water. Acute inflammation in the muscles of the base of the tail causes the tail to droop. The condition is also known by a particularly apt synonym—“broken wag.”
I study the exposed surface at the base. The tissue could be described as brittle, even “crisp,” but that seems insensitive given the dog’s name. I’m guessing the break is between the second and third coccygeal vertebrae.
“How did this happen?” The question is aimed at Mavis, but Trish steps forward to huddle.
“He got it caught in a screen door.” She’s lowered her voice to foil the hearing aids.
“Um… this might seem like a stupid question, but that suggests a stuffed dog has been going outside in the middle of winter.”
Trish checks over her shoulder and flashes her Mom a fake smile that, as far as I can tell, broadcasts “yes, we’re talking about you.”
“She takes him out in the backyard three times a day, just like she did when he was alive. It’s a ritual, it’s comforting. Even if Crispin just stands there. I think his tail must have gotten caught in the door as she wheeled him in this morning.”
Maybe senile dementia, not Parkinson’s.
“I’ll be honest, Dr. Mills.” This must be serious because she’s whispering now. “I’ve tolerated this foolish, irrational delusion for far too long. If this… injury… is the last straw, that would be fine by me and my husband, if you get my meaning.”
I peer around Trish and catch a glimpse of poor Mavis. She’s looking off in the distance, stroking Crispin’s head.
“Crispin meant the world to her, and I know how much she loves canine companionship, always has, but her arthritis is getting to be a serious problem. Simple things—turning door handles, switching on lights, opening the refrigerator—are becoming more and more difficult. She really needs to be in an elderly care facility. But she can’t go because the decent ones refuse to take a dog, even a stuffed one. We’ve got more than enough room at our house, but unfortunately Lionel, my husband, is highly allergic to dog dander. You see my dilemma? As cruel as it may seem, it would be kinder if Crispin turned out to be beyond repair, if you get my meaning.”
Trish steps back, pressing her hands together as though the case for the prosecution rests. Mavis looks up at me with the eyes of a frightened child who wants to go home. I never cease to be amazed by how attached people can be to their pets. This yellow Lab has physically remained in her life, yet she’s still a wreck at the thought of something more debilitating than death causing him harm. Proof positive that this kind of bond can be both dangerous and unhealthy. This woman needs full-time care more than she needs a dead dog. It’s normal to outlive our pets. Your dog dies, and you’re left with the memories. Unless—unless you can’t remember.
Something chirps inside Trish’s handbag, and she apologizes and fumbles to silence the noise. In that moment, Mavis, unnoticed by her daughter, jerks her head in my direction, eyes coming into focus to meet mine, making me register the subtlest shake of her head. It’s over in seconds—Trish awaiting the verdict, the fragile old lady back to patting Crispin’s head.
Mavis can only be saying, “No, don’t do it,” which suggests she knows her daughter’s real motive behind this visit. Or am I jumping to conclusions again? What to do? One of Lewis’s many mantras pops into my head—play for time.
“Why don’t you leave Crispin with me,” I say to both of them. “I’ll see if there’s anything I can do.”
Funny, both women look pleased, as though I’ve hit upon a solution worthy of King Solomon. For Mavis, it looks like I’m going to fix the tail. For Trish, I’m giving her mother a chance to accept the separation, softening the final blow.
“I appreciate your understanding,” says Trish, raising a conspiratorial eyebrow as she shakes my hand, glad to have me on board. Mavis, with her daughter’s assistance, eases up and onto her feet, dips low to kiss Crispin on his forehead, and shuffles over to me. Only now do I appreciate her fuzzy white bunny slippers with pink ears.
The arthritic fingers of her right hand beckon for me to come close.
“Thanks, Bobby,” she says, and, making sure she’s out of her daughter’s line of sight, she delivers a sly wink.
Arm in arm they head out to the front desk, leaving me alone with a deceased yellow Labrador on castors. Bobby was my father’s name. Physically, aside from our eyes, we look totally different. Is Mavis so senile she’s confusing her visit with a time when her dog and her old veterinarian were alive? But what’s with the wink? What if Mavis Peebles is trying to tell me she’s really a whole lot smarter than she’s letting on?
I trundle Crispin through the work area and park him in an empty run. He’s definitely got some mobility issues. Only when I slide home the lock on the run’s gate do I catch myself. What’s wrong with me? He’s not going anywhere. Forget about antibiotics, now I’m the doctor who dispenses WD-40.
I leave Crispin’s broken appendage with him. My game of pin the tail on the doggy will have to wait. Time to start working on my backlog of unsolved cases.
First up, Gilligan, the neurotic border collie. Yes, I like the idea of Gillie’s owner, Mary, singing my praises to Amy, but more importantly, I have a decent lead to go on—a sample of Gillie’s blood.
For the record, I enjoy anatomical or gross pathology, and no, I don’t mean disgusting or yucky (I suppose for some all pathology is gross). I mean the inspection of disease with the naked eye. But give me a microscope to find a diagnosis and I’m in heaven.
As I cozy up to the counter of my makeshift lab, everything is at hand, the process of slide preparation so well rehearsed in my memory I can put it on autopilot. Take a drop of blood, place on glass and smear with a deft hand, allow to dry using a warm—not hot—hair dryer, add a drop of stain for just the right amount of time, and voilà—you have a secret cellular story waiting to be read.
I pop my first prepared slide under the microscope and set to work. Four more slides and the result becomes conclusive. Gilligan is anemic, as indicated by his low number of red blood cells. But far more troubling is the fact that the anemia appears to be what’s called nonregenerative. Normally if you’re losing blood, your body notices and tells your bone marrow to make some more. Eithe
r Gillie’s bone marrow doesn’t want to or it can’t. Bad enough to be running on empty, but worse when the only gas station around is closed.
Gilligan’s file provides me with Mary’s cell number, and I give her a call to explain.
“There’s only so much I can discover here at the practice. Ideally I’d like to send off his blood for more tests, and, if you can swing it, we should get an X-ray of Gilligan’s abdomen.”
Mary’s sigh of disappointment hisses in my ear. “Ah, you’re killin’ me, Doc. Can’t afford both. Wish I could. You choose which one will give us the answer.”
My turn to sigh. Not only have I got to cut corners to save dollars, but this way, it’ll be my fault if I spend her hard-earned money and still don’t discover what’s wrong.
“Tell you what,” I say. “Drop Gilligan off tomorrow morning. No food after midnight in case we need to sedate him. Let’s go with the X-ray.”
Mary thanks me, but even as I hang up, I’m packaging the vial of Gilligan’s blood to send off to the lab. No, of course I can’t afford to foot the bill, but somehow I’ve got to increase my odds of making a diagnosis, for the sake of Gilligan, and hey, if this gets back to Amy as a philanthropic gesture, so much the better.
THE NOVELTY of a little sealed envelope icon in the bottom right-hand corner of my laptop screen proves irresistible. Nobody I know (or want to know) would try to reach me by email, which is why I abandon the world of kooky cows and fat cats and peck the digital letter with the arrow of my cursor and wait as two new emails appear in my inbox.
From: Stiles, Gabe
To: Mills, Cyrus
CC: Brown, Charlize
Subject: Sorry!
Hey Doc,
Sorry if I messed up. I still owe you for not snitching. It was Charlie’s idea to hook you up with her mom (yeah, I’m a rat), not mine. If you still need it, here’s the link to your profile. My first dog was Jack and we lived on Hoffman Crescent, so you got lucky!
www.lafs.com
Gabe
P.S. Hoping my “covert mission” ;)
will make us even.
I click on the link—purely to research my cover—and I’m incredulous at the depth of the deceit Gabe has created online. Apparently I want to go to Hawaii for my next vacation, the last movie I saw was Platoon (a little dig from Charlize), I have no brothers or sisters, I majored in communications at college, and, it seems, the best part about being single is the hope that “my quest for the perfect soul mate will end with you.” Do women really buy cheesy lines like that? Don’t ask me how, but Gabe even uncovered a headshot on file with my previous place of employment and photoshopped it to somehow make me look a whole lot better than I really do.