Love Is the Best Medicine

by Dr. Nick Trout

  Sandi placed a call, and the phone was picked up by a young, polite child. Here was an opportunity too good to miss, a soft target for a delicate recon mission. The kid was happy to blab and Sandi was pleased to discover that the dogs were an integral part of a big and boisterous family. Adult conversation came next, a friendly, mutual inquisition. Sandi was encouraged to contact the breeder’s other clients; she even spoke to the breeder’s veterinarian, getting an objective take on the breeding facility, the breeder’s philosophy, and, of critical importance, the parental health records. Every box was checked before succumbing to the laws of physical attraction as digital images of three black-and-rust female puppies flew across cyberspace to meet her.

  The pups were only days old, their eyes still closed, and for most of us, no matter how you spun the pixels, the trio of furry cherubs in the center of each frame would have been cute and adorable, but essentially identical. Yet to Sandi, they could not have been more different. It is hard to imagine love at first sight leaping, or even squirming, from these silent, still images, beamed in from so far away, but Sandi would assert that in this lineup of unusual suspects, she instantly knew exactly where to look.

  Weeks passed, the blind fur ball opened her eyes and began to grow, and the breeder’s photographic updates confirmed that Sandi had chosen wisely. There remained, however, the matter of Jan’s only bargaining tool from the original offer of a new puppy. At the time, heady and breathless, Sandi had agreed without hesitation. Now, as the arrival date drew closer, she began to regret her easy capitulation. How could she trust a man obsessed with his Danish heritage to name the new love of her life?

  As is so often the case, a search on the Internet only fueled her reservations. The Norse gods appeared to be inept when it came to naming the fairer sex. Freya or Frigga, the best options she could find, still felt far too sturdy for the delicate creature on her screen saver.

  “I have two names in mind,” Jan announced one day.

  Sandi held her breath and gave him a “let me have them” look.

  “Well, I rather like the name Lulu.”

  Sandi studied him, stupefied, with a ventriloquist dummy smile. It could have been much worse and maybe she could get used it.

  “What do you think?” Jan rushed to the back door, stuck his head out, and shouted, “Lu-lu, Lu-lu,” trying out a different intonation with each cry.

  Sandi winced and said, “What else have you got?”

  Jan was enjoying himself, hiding his grin, sighing into a shrug as if disappointed to have to use his backup.

  “You seem to be besotted by this breed, these Kings of the Toy, so I think your little dog deserves a strong female name, something self-assured, something regal.”

  Sandi locked on to the word regal, and under her breath she berated herself for failing to explore the daunting prospects from Denmark’s royal family.

  “Please Jan, don’t tell me you’re thinking about naming her after a Danish queen?”

  Jan shook his head.

  “How about Egyptian?” he asked.

  And as soon as Sandi had the clue, she knew he had made the right choice.

  “Cleopatra. My little girl is Cleo.”

  IT WAS only when they walked into their kitchen that the practicalities of Helen’s sudden presence in their lives really hit home.

  Eileen carried the dog in her arms, uncertain how a disoriented spaniel might respond when a gigantic black Newfoundland head completely filled her visual field. She need not have worried. Didi got up from the kitchen floor, sniffed the air, mulled over the unpleasant fragrance, and loped off to the living room to lie down.

  “Perhaps she thinks we brought home a pet skunk,” said Ben, somewhat surprised by the big girl’s indifference.

  As if needing to prove a common genetic ancestry with this snooty black monster, the little spaniel began to bark, a mix between a bark and a whine really, like a vocal prod, a low-level persistent nudge.

  “You think she’s trying to tell us something?” said Eileen, placing her under the kitchen counter and bunching the plaid travel blanket up around her to form a cozy nest.

  “What sort of something?” said Ben. “Get me out of here?”

  Eileen knelt down on the floor beside Helen, stroking her head, the cry becoming a little softer, a little less frequent.

  “What if she has something contagious?” she asked.

  “Contagious?” said Ben, wondering where this logic was when they were back at the parking lot.

  “You know, rabies, distemper, the stuff you get a dog vaccinated against. She’s got no collar and therefore no tags. I’d never forgive myself if she’s carrying some sort of disease and by bringing her home I’m going to expose Didi to it.”

  Ben thought about this. Eileen raised a good point. In theory he could bank this statement, use it as ammunition at a later time. Then again, he only had to watch how his wife fawned over the tiny tramp who had wheedled her way into their kitchen to know such thoughts were laughable. Something was taking place between Eileen and the dog they had christened Helen. It was obvious, undeniable, a connection that required no explanation or justification. It just was. And for Ben the best part was bearing witness to the fact that that was all it took.

  “I don’t think we need to worry,” said Ben. “I mean look at her. Her muzzle has more gray than salt and pepper. She has to have survived at least a decade of exposure to all kinds of disease living her vagabond lifestyle. Her nose may be wet but it’s not snotty. And her eyes are bright and not crusty.” He shook his head. “I seriously doubt she’s an infectious Trojan horse.”

  Eileen seemed unconvinced.

  “She might not be housebroken?” he said, trying to be more practical than defamatory.

  “Oh, I’m not so worried about that,” she said. “I can teach an old dog new tricks.”

  But suddenly Eileen stopped running her hand over Helen’s neck and shoulders. Kneeling, moving closer, she parted hair and peered into the mangy coat.

  “Yuck,” she said. “I thought I was feeling little skin bumps and warts all over her body.”

  Ben dipped down to join her.

  “Me too,” he said.

  Despite the camouflage of dark fur, the kitchen light picked out an engorged, purple-green appendage attached to the filthy skin. And then there was another, and another. Juicy fat ticks, ripe and bloated with blood, were all over her body. Not that there weren’t warts and bumps as well, it was just that the warts and bumps were all Helen, and not a threat to Didi.

  “That’s it,” said Eileen, sweeping the dog back into her arms. “I’m taking her for a bath. It’s what she’s probably been trying to tell me all along.”

  “Do you need a hand?” asked Ben, though the lack of conviction in his voice instantly prompted a raised brow from Eileen. “’Cause if it’s okay with you, I thought I might do a little work in the barn.”

  “Go ahead,” said Eileen. “I’m going to give Helen her makeover and then I’m thinking us three girls might do a little movie night together.”

  Ben watched them disappear up the stairs of their small two-story contemporary home and headed outside to a large salt-box-style barn sitting kitty-corner to the main house. The property was set back from the main road, surrounded by the solitude of seven acres of open fields and deciduous woodland. Ben was an artist, a painter. The barn was where he worked, and for him late-night sessions were often his most productive. Tempting as it might have been to join his wife for a tick-picking soiree and bear witness to the unimaginably defiled water sluicing from that wretched dog’s body, he had deadlines to meet on a number of commissioned paintings. Besides, this was Eileen’s project. As her husband he had grown accustomed to his wife’s spontaneity when it came to acts of kindness, generosity, and empathy, be it toward people or animals. It remained a huge part of her appeal. It was plain to see how both sides would benefit as her bond with the foundling blossomed. Eileen would relish the opportunity to trans
form this furry pauper into a Westminster princess.

  PEPE Le Pew did not relinquish her perfume without a fight. Rinse after rinse the water ran black as Eileen worked the doggy shampoo into an unruly lather. Throughout the careful, head-to-tail liberation of ticks in various stages of satiation, and all the suds and spray, Helen had stood silently in the tub, head outstretched, doleful eyes staring up at her, trembling like a cell phone in vibrate mode.

  The wet fur revealed the real folds and contours hidden underneath and it was clear from the surfeit of body fat that Helen had been an accomplished scavenger for some time. What kind of a life had she been living? There were no obvious scars or bruises to suggest anything like physical abuse. A label of neglect seemed to be a better fit, or maybe forced independence, though it was hard to imagine this relatively small, pure-breed spaniel competing against coyotes and raccoons in the wilds of Massachusetts. Where did she get her street smarts? How had she survived the harsh New England winters? Based on what Eileen had experienced so far, not-so-little Helen had obviously learned to use charm and flirtation to her advantage. What she lacked in speed and savagery she more than made up for with feminine wiles.

  As Eileen began to towel Helen dry, the dog remained quiet, maintaining a passive stare. Eileen carefully lifted up those heavy, pendulous ears, gently dabbing at the red, raw, and swollen interior, long since abandoned to the will of thriving bacteria and fungi. She maintained a soothing monologue as she worked, the white towel finally swaddling the dog’s head and chest, a canine version of a shrouded E.T. staring back.

  Eileen felt it then, a keen awareness of this animal’s need for her. And it was the absence of sound that sealed her fate. Eileen studied this creature staring back and realized her silence was saying volumes. It felt as though the dog’s silence was a pause, a moment between them in which Helen was waiting to be understood. Eileen read this telepathy as a plea that said “Look at the state I am in. Do you really think anyone will miss me? When do you think was the last time anyone even acknowledged my existence?” She tried to imagine how bizarre the last few hours must have been for this dog, but in that moment, kneeling beside the tub, with her and Helen’s eyes locked, Eileen focused on trying to convey one simple message—trust me.

  THAT first night, Helen ultimately squeezed into a tight space between two couches. Perhaps it was the closest approximation to a familiar sleeping arrangement. Only then did Didi make her move, going over to where this stranger lay and, with great deliberation and delicacy, sniffing this Mini-Me over her entire body without waking her up. Apparently satisfied, she trotted off to her own bed to retire for the night, leaving Eileen puzzled by this detached introduction. Didi was used to other dogs. She was well socialized, a popular player at the local dog park. It was true that they rarely entertained other canine guests in the house, but this interaction seemed so reserved, almost awkward, it was as if the big girl knew to give Helen some space. Perhaps something in the way Eileen handled this newcomer made Didi realize she should go slowly.

  By the next morning the physicality of the relationship between Helen and Eileen became apparent. It was as if they were adjacent convicts in a chain gang. Everywhere Eileen went, Helen was sure to follow, at her heels, moving from one room to the next, a furry lady-in-waiting. If Eileen went to the bathroom, Helen would insist on joining her. Conversely, Eileen’s efforts to encourage Helen to use their backyard for her toilet needs were met by hesitation and a look of abject fear.

  “She won’t go outside without me,” said Eileen to Ben, who drifted into the kitchen, grabbing his first cup of coffee of the day. “I’ve tried a couple of times but she digs in at the door and stares at me. I think she thinks I’m getting rid of her, asking her to leave.”

  Ben eyed his wife over the rim of his mug, taking a swallow, noticing the spaniel tethered by some invisible thread to his wife’s ankle. The painting had gone well the previous night and he had worked late. He had managed to miss the “canine reveal” after the midnight makeover, and to his disappointment, although the dog looked much improved, there remained more of her distinctive fragrance than he would have liked. The smell had been downgraded but it was still there, already acquiring a familiarity, like the odor on entering the home of an ailing grandparent, something you could endure and forgive, even tolerate out of kindness.

  “She looks much better,” he said, letting his eyes convey the unsaid remainder of his sentence.

  “I know,” said Eileen, dropping down to pet Helen. “It’s her ears and her breath. Her teeth are awful. Not that it has affected her appetite. She’s eating like she’s headed for the chair.”

  Ben paused mid-sip, letting the sentence hang, wondering if his wife was feeling him out. But Eileen was elsewhere, stroking under Helen’s chin and throat.

  “I’m going to sort you out today,” she said, speaking directly to the dog. “See what we can do for you.”

  Eileen smiled up at her husband, and Helen followed her gaze, and Ben’s artistic eye instantly framed the shot, seeing the photo opportunity—the woman he loved and by her side a dog with an open heart, as though they had always had one another, as though they had already filled albums together.

  IT WAS Eileen’s mother, Clare, who provided some crucial information with regard to Helen’s background. They had chatted early that morning about the dog lurking in the shadows of a restaurant parking lot, their failed attempt to find out where the dog came from, and how natural it had been to name her after Clare’s recently deceased mother.

  “You’ll never guess who I just bumped into,” said Clare, hardly pausing to provide the answer to her own question. “Our local animal control officer.”

  “You told him about Helen?” Eileen was unable to hide an element closer to panic than curiosity, as though her mother had inadvertently collaborated with the enemy.

  “I did. But don’t worry, I kept everything very vague. I made it sound like a friend of mine had seen an old black spaniel wandering around town.”

  “And?”

  “And he knew all about Helen. Shaking his head, rolling his eyes. He looked exasperated.”

  “Did he tell you where she lives? Who’s supposed to be looking after her?”

  “He wouldn’t say,” said Clare, “but he told me he’s fed up with picking up that poor dog. He says no matter how many warnings he gives them, the owners never take care of her or keep her on their property.”

  Eileen wondered whether she should give the officer a call herself.

  “Did he say if anyone had reported a neighborhood spaniel as missing?”

  She heard Clare huff a laugh into the phone.

  “That was the first question I asked. He told me no, and when I described the dog he told me they never do. They simply don’t care. In fact he went even further. I don’t know whether he thought I was holding something back but he said, ‘If you find her, don’t call me, better to call MSPCA law enforcement.’”

  Though Eileen appreciated this advice, due diligence necessitated she go online and track down the phone number for Cocker Spaniel Rescue of New England. Scrolling down their Web page she saw a dozen cockers up for adoption, and what struck her most was not the uniformly happy smiles on their furry faces, but their ages in the adjacent bios. With few exceptions these were young dogs in excellent health.

  Eileen dialed the number as two quotes caught her eye.

  “For every dog we can adopt out, five more are abandoned, abused, or given up.” And then, transparently situated next to an image of a pleading dog, the highlighted line, “We need forever homes.”

  Eileen introduced herself to the energetic female volunteer on the other end of the line and quickly discovered that no one had con tacted them to report a missing cocker spaniel fitting Helen’s description.

  “I’m afraid she already has a number of strikes against her,” said the volunteer.

  “You mean her age,” said Eileen.

  “Yes, there’s her age. People
are less likely to adopt an older dog. They worry about health problems, the cost of veterinary care. They worry about not being able to break them of bad habits. They worry about getting attached and getting their heart broken if the dog is only with them for a short time.”

  This explained the photographs of predominantly younger dogs.

  “The other big issue is her color.”

  “Her what?”

  “It’s been called ‘black dog syndrome,’” said the volunteer.

  “Black dog what!” said Eileen. “You’re telling me adopting a dog is influenced by color … by race?”

  Eileen looked down at Helen. She had strayed a short distance from the computer desk, sitting with her back legs extended in front of her, front legs balanced in between, scooting along and wiping her bottom across the carpet in what appeared to be a well-practiced movement.

  “No one knows exactly why, but it is a proven fact that black dogs are simply less adoptable.”

  “People discriminate based on a dog’s hair color?”

  “It’s not just dogs,” said the volunteer. “It happens in cat shelters too. Maybe there’s something superstitious about it. Maybe people worry about seeing black hairs shed all over their light-colored furniture. The most popular theory seems to be that adopting a dog is all about love at first sight. Eye contact. Dark dogs can get lost in the shadows of dimly lit shelters. If you go unseen, you go unadopted and for the most part, wearing a shocking pink ribbon around your neck doesn’t do much to improve your chances. Black dogs stick around three times longer than dogs of any other color.”

  “I didn’t even mention that her ears are a mess, her teeth are not great, and she seems to have a problem with her anal sacs.”

  “Look,” said the volunteer. “We will gladly take her off your hands. But I’ll be honest with you, based on her age, color, and just those few health problems alone, the chances of a successful adoption are slim to none.”