by Ann B. Ross
“Well, we don’t want that. One stove-up like Mr. Thurlow is more’n enough. Do we need a coat?”
“Maybe a sweater. It’s supposed to be in the seventies later today.”
It wasn’t there yet, for there was a definite nip in the air as we set out down the sidewalk. I knew exactly where I was going, but I wanted Lillian to think I had no particular plan in mind. Lillian was not what you would call a natural animal lover. In fact, she avoided all animals—especially dogs—when she could. I thought it likely that she’d been frightened by one when she was a child. We walked the three blocks to Thurlow’s house, but instead of turning toward the gate, I continued along the side of the lot.
“You wouldn’t believe the changes that Helen has made,” I told Lillian as we sauntered along. “The interior is just beautiful—as much as I saw. And the exterior has been completely updated with repairs and paint and yard care.”
“Well, Law,” Lillian said, “it sure could use some help. I never seen such a mess as Mr. Thurlow lived in. But that’s a bachelor for you. He need a good cleanin’ lady, an’ look like he got one in Miss Helen.”
“She is that, and more,” I said, although I knew that Helen would not appreciate the terminology. “Remember when you and I visited Thurlow to entice him into supporting the poker run? And remember how Ronnie smelled to high heaven? Although, to tell the truth, I sometimes wondered if it wasn’t Thurlow himself that smelled.”
We laughed at the memory, and Lillian said, “Remember that night you and me was crawlin’ ’round tryin’ to see what was goin’ on, an’ that Ronnie, he come sneakin’ up on us an’ wouldn’t leave us alone.”
“Yes, and he followed us all the way home, and we had to let him in.” I refrained from telling her that Ronnie had found his way into my bed that night and that, in my sleep-dazed mind, I had thought he was Sam. There are some things that one should keep to oneself.
As we came to the end of Thurlow’s block, I said, “Let’s turn here and gradually head back. I want to see if Helen has done anything to the back of the house—if we can see through the hedge.”
We could, because the hedge wasn’t quite as thick as it was along the front and the sides—too much shade. We strolled along behind the three-car garage that for as long as I had been in town had never held more than Thurlow’s one old car, and that, not very often.
“Aw-w, look at that,” Lillian said. She was holding two bars of the iron fence and staring through them and the thin hedge.
“What is it?”
“It’s that ole Ronnie, an’ we jus’ been talkin’ ’bout him.”
I poked my face between two bars and saw an enclosure behind the garage, fenced in by a tall mesh fence. There was a sizable doghouse up against the garage, several empty bowls on the straw-covered ground, and Ronnie curled up in a ball over in a corner. Hearing us, his eyes flicked up toward us, but he didn’t move.
“Oh, my, he’s been exiled,” I said. “I knew it. I just had a feeling that Helen wouldn’t allow him in the house. He looks so sad, doesn’t he?”
“Downright pitiful,” Lillian said. “He don’t have no get-up-an’-go, neither, not like he used to have when he prance around all over the place, knockin’ over things with that tail goin’ ninety miles an hour.”
“Hey, Ronnie,” I crooned. “Come over and see us, Ronnie. Come on, boy.”
With what seemed a mighty effort, Ronnie unfolded himself and stood. Then he shook the straw from his body and walked somewhat unsteadily toward us, his tail barely making an effort.
“Law, Miss Julia,” Lillian said, reaching a hand through the fence to pet him. “He don’t look too good. He look lean to me, like he’s not gettin’ enough to eat.”
“To me, too, Lillian,” I said, noting the easily counted ribs of his chest and his doleful eyes as he looked at us. I scanned his new home—plenty of room if all he wanted to do was lie down and sleep, but not enough for a romping dog like a Great Dane. “I wonder if that doghouse is heated. It’ll get plenty cold around here with all the trees.”
“I don’t see no ’lectric cord,” Lillian said, “but maybe they got a quilt or something in there for him.”
“Well, he’s a short-haired dog, so he doesn’t have much natural protection.” I sighed, knowing how poorly I would sleep throughout the winter with a cold dog on my mind. “I’m going to have to speak to Helen about this.”
“Yes’m, I wish you would. That pore ole dog look half sick to me. He look like a grievin’ dog, an,’ you know, Miss Julia, that dogs miss humans more’n humans miss dogs.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, ma’am, they do. Why, when they owner dies, lotsa times a dog mourns more’n a widder woman do. They set around, jus’ waitin’ for the one they miss to come back. An’ if a dog gets out, he might go to the grave an’ set there till somebody come get him.”
“My goodness,” I said, my heart going out to Ronnie, who, I could plainly see, was mourning the loss of Thurlow’s companionship, as well as his former home in front of a dead fireplace and next to his master’s smelly feet.
* * *
—
“Helen?” I said when she answered the phone. “I meant to ask yesterday when I was there, but since Thurlow’s been out of action, how is Ronnie getting along?”
“Who?”
“Ronnie. You know, Thurlow’s dog, the one he’s had for years.”
“Oh, Ronnie. Well, much like Thurlow himself, Ronnie’s not rebounding as I’d like him to, I’m sorry to say.”
“Has he been sick?”
“Oh, no, he’s just not adjusting very well to having a few boundaries. But, you know, Julia, that Thurlow let that animal have the run of the house, and, believe me, the house looked it.”
“I know. Thurlow spoiled him rotten.”
“Yes, he did, but I had to put my foot down and ban him from the house. Of course, I’ve made sure that he has a comfortable place to live out behind the garage. And on pretty days, we push Thurlow’s wheelchair inside the fence so he has a little time with his dog.”
“That’s thoughtful of you, Helen. I’m sure they both appreciate it.”
“Well, of course, that animal is just one more thing to take care of, and I have my hands full already. Mr. Harris—that’s the groundskeeper—told me just this morning that Ronnie’s looking peaked, whatever that means.”
“Maybe a trip to the veterinarian is in order.”
“Oh, probably, when I have time to do it. Right now, I have painters upstairs and down, and a kitchen designer is due any minute. Why, Julia, did you know that the kitchen stove is circa 1975 and three of the four eyes are burned out? Now, how can we cook on something like that? Thurlow just doesn’t appreciate what a mess this house is in—it’s like building a new one on the ruins of the old. Ronnie’s just going to have to wait his turn.”
I thought for a minute, then, for fear of offending her, asked carefully, “Does Thurlow miss having him around?”
“Oh, my, yes. For the first several weeks all I heard was him moaning and groaning about Ronnie, until I told him it was either me or Ronnie, he could take his choice.”
“Well, obviously he made the better choice, Helen. I don’t know what Thurlow would’ve done without you. You have made such a difference in his well-being.”
“I’ve tried,” Helen said without sounding too self-satisfied. “But I couldn’t bear the thought of Thurlow stuck in some group home in a room with several other old men in the same condition he was in. And, as I reminded him, Ronnie would’ve been in a kennel with fifty other dogs that nobody could care for. They’re both better off here.”
“Oh, absolutely, Helen. Group homes are fit for neither man nor beast. You have rescued them both from such a destiny, and I hope Thurlow appreciates what you’re doing. But, Helen,” I said, then bit my lip bef
ore gathering my courage and making the offer, “I would like to help if I can. Would you like me to take Ronnie to the vet just to be sure he’s all right? I can have Lloyd go with me, and it’s something I think Thurlow would appreciate more than my bringing a fruit basket.”
“Why, Julia, that is so thoughtful of you, but it’s too much to ask. The dog is huge and very hard to handle.”
“Well, Ronnie knows me. I kept him overnight at my house once when—well, we won’t go into that. But if you’re concerned that he might be ill, we really should see about him. I’d hate for something to happen and Thurlow to have a relapse because of it.”
“Oh, goodness, don’t even think that,” Helen said with what sounded like authentic alarm. “Well, if you really wouldn’t mind taking him to the vet, it would relieve me tremendously. I try to do it all, Julia, but I just can’t.”
“Nobody can, Helen, and your first priority has to be Thurlow.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “and the house.”
She gave me the name of Ronnie’s personal veterinarian, and I promised to make the appointment and be responsible for getting the patient there and back. After hanging up the phone, I studied on our conversation. I could not bring myself to think that Helen would deliberately mistreat Thurlow’s dog, but it is a fact that some people do not connect with animals at all, while others think more of their pets than they do of people. To them, a pet has human feelings and attributes, but to others, like Helen, a pet is just something else to clean up after.
Chapter 11
After talking with the receptionist at the veterinarian’s office, I should’ve known that things would go downhill from then on. But, I thought, in for a penny, in for a pound, although a pound was not the most uplifting thing to be thinking of under the circumstances.
The veterinarian had a cancellation exactly one hour from the time I called—his first opening for a week, take it or leave it. Lloyd would not be home from school until much later, so I wouldn’t have his help. There was only one person to whom I could turn.
“Lillian?”
“Yes’m?”
“I don’t know how I let myself get into these situations, but Helen has asked me to take Ronnie to the vet. You know how sick he looked when we saw him, and apparently Thurlow hasn’t been doing well, either. Unfortunately, I happened to ask if there was anything we could do to help, and she asked if we could take him to the doctor.”
“Mr. Thurlow or Mr. Ronnie?”
“Oh, Ronnie, of course. He has an appointment in forty-five minutes, so would you mind going with me? It shouldn’t take long, and Ronnie’s accustomed to riding in a car. I don’t foresee any problems at all.”
“Do I have to ride in the backseat with him?”
“Certainly not. Besides, he’ll take up the whole seat himself. There’ll be no room in the back for anybody else.”
“Well,” Lillian said, drying her hands with a Bounty towel. “You can’t handle that ole dog by yourself, so I reckon I better go, too. You gonna need some help.”
“Thank you, Lillian. We’re both doing a good deed—although I’d just as soon not do it. But let’s go get him.”
Lillian found an old blanket which we spread out over the leather backseat of my car and down across the foot well.
“Ronnie will fit just fine on the seat,” I said, thankful that I didn’t have a cloth interior that would soak up odors.
I drove to Thurlow’s house and turned into the drive, stopping in front of the garage. No one came out to help us, but Helen had already told me that she would be in conference with the kitchen designer. She was sure that Ronnie would be no trouble.
And he wasn’t. In fact, his ears perked up as soon as Lillian and I unhooked the gate of his pen. He came right to me and sniffed to confirm who I was, but to be on the safe side, we snapped a leash onto his collar and walked him to the car. The trouble came with getting him in. He didn’t seem to have any control over his hindquarters. His front part was willing, but his back part wasn’t, and he hung there, half in and half out. Lillian and I had to lift his back end and shove him in. With a great sigh, Ronnie spread himself out over the backseat, rested his head between his front paws, and waited to be driven to his destination, wherever it was.
On our way to the vet’s office, Lillian looked back at Ronnie, then whispered, “I don’t want him to hear me, Miss Julia, but he don’t look too good to me.”
“To me, either,” I whispered back, then, realizing how inane that was, spoke up. “That’s why I don’t really mind doing this. Thurlow’s in an even worse state, so somebody has to help out.”
Dr. Marsh, the veterinarian, was a small man, not much larger than Lloyd, who was small for his age. I declare, the man looked as if he should be shaking pom-poms at a pep rally, yet he seemed to know what he was doing. He didn’t turn a hair when he saw the size of Ronnie—which was about that of a yearling calf—because the office was well equipped to handle large animals. There was an examining table that was similar to one of those automobile hoists that lift a car so a mechanic can stand under it.
Ronnie obediently stepped onto the lowered table, then looked around as the table buzzed him up until his head almost touched the ceiling. Thus Dr. Marsh, much like a mechanic, could easily reach under and palpate Ronnie’s nether parts.
“Uh-huh, yes. Oh, yes, uh-huh. Okay, that’s it,” Dr. Marsh said, talking as much to himself as to those of us who watched. Then, lowering Ronnie to waist level, the doctor—who I thought must’ve been a dog whisperer—told Ronnie to lie down and Ronnie did.
After further probing, listening, and palpating, Dr. Marsh looked up at us and said, “No wonder this poor dog looks so miserable. He is miserable. Both ears are heavily infected, and that’s affecting his appetite and his general well-being. Now I’ll show you how to administer his medicine. Which one will be doing it?”
I looked at Lillian, and she looked at me. Finally, I manned up and acquiesced to learning how to do it. Dr. Marsh motioned me to come near the table. He lifted one ear flap, from which emanated a noxious odor, and pointed to the swelling and redness inside the ear. “You really should check a dog’s ears occasionally and not let them get this bad.”
I jerked back, realizing that the doctor was mistaking me for Ronnie’s owner. I quickly set him straight as to whom he should chastize for animal neglect, and it certainly wasn’t me.
“Well, then,” Dr. Marsh said, “you are to be complimented for being a Good Samaritan.”
Exactly, I thought, because I, like the Samaritan, fully intended to drop Ronnie off for someone else to care for.
Nonetheless, Dr. Marsh showed me how to put drops in Ronnie’s ear—one kind of drop for the left one and another kind for the right one, because he had two different infections.
“This one,” Dr. Marsh said, holding up a small plastic bottle, “is for the left ear and two drops should go in it every four hours for seven days. And this one,” he said, holding up a similar plastic bottle, “is for the right ear and three drops should go in it every four hours for seven days. And be sure to massage each ear after the drops go in so that the medicine gets distributed. Don’t worry, Ronnie will love it, but be sure you don’t skip any doses, especially for the first twenty-four hours.”
“My word,” I said, “somebody’s going to be up most of the night.” And who, I wondered, would that be? I couldn’t imagine that Helen would—she’d stay up all night to perfect a flower arrangement, but to medicate a swollen, oozing dog’s ear? I doubted it. And it wouldn’t be Thurlow, who couldn’t get out of bed at all. Thurlow’s minder? Not likely, as he’d be spending more time in Ronnie’s pen than in Thurlow’s bedroom, which was where he was most needed.
I rolled my eyes, giving in to the inevitable. “Mark those bottles well, Dr. Marsh. I don’t want to cross-medicate in the middle of the night.”
“You’ll
do fine,” Dr. Marsh said. “Now, as to his food. I expect he’s been getting dry dog food, but I suggest that he get a soft, bland diet at least for the next few days.” He handed me a pamphlet showing how and what to prepare for Ronnie’s new diet.
When the three of us were back in the car, Ronnie stretched out on the backseat and Lillian, seated beside me, said, “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”
I cranked the car and began to back out. “If you’re thinking that there’s nobody left to care for that dog but me, then, yes, I’m thinking what you’re thinking. And I’m about half put out by it. I did, however, open myself up for it by trying to be helpful.”
“Well,” Lillian said, “I guess me an’ Latisha could spend the night, so you an’ me could take turns gettin’ up and givin’ him that medicine.”
“Thank you, Lillian, but I couldn’t ask you to do that. Tomorrow’s Saturday, so it won’t hurt Lloyd to lose a little sleep tonight. He can sleep late in the morning.”
Before she could answer, we heard an awful retching sound from the backseat. Too late, I recalled that Ronnie was prone to carsickness.
“He’s th’owin’ up!” Lillian said, trying to unbuckle herself so she could turn around.
From the rearview mirror, I saw Ronnie rise to his feet to stand on the seat, his head hanging low, his mouth open as great convulsive movements rolled up and down his body.
“Lay down, Ronnie!” Lillian cried as she hung over the front seat. “Step on it, Miss Julia! Le’s get him home.”
Too late, for after a few nauseating, rolling contractions, Ronnie emptied his stomach all over the foot well of my luxury car. Then, with a great sigh, he lay back down and closed his eyes, seemingly at ease and at peace, as who wouldn’t be after such a clearing out of the system.
The air was another matter, and Lillian and I drove home with all windows open in spite of the chilly weather. Quickly getting Ronnie out of the car, but not without his stepping where he shouldn’t have, we hosed off his feet, dried them, and led him into the kitchen.