The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel

by Nick Trout

  Why will some people never understand that introspection changes nothing? Harry continues, “You say you don’t believe in fate, but what if you’re working on a dog and you discover a bump on her head, and then on her neck, her back, and her tail. There must be times when you say to yourself, this can’t be a coincidence.”

  “Of course.”

  Harry beams. “See, this priest told me something that’s stuck with me. ‘Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.’ ”

  He pauses, giving the lesson time to resonate in my head. “Know who said that? Another pretty good scientist by the name of Albert Einstein. Believe me, you’re back in Eden Falls for a reason. You might not know it yet, but give it time.”

  Back in Eden Falls.

  He knows.

  “If Lewis trusts you, then so do I.”

  I don’t know what to say. I’ve rarely felt less worthy of someone’s trust.

  “You know the doctors tried to put me in a hospital.” Harry shakes his head. “Ask anyone my age where they’d prefer to die and they’ll say at home.” He takes a deep breath. “Well, let me leave you with this thought … Clint is my home.”

  It’s hard not to be struck by this plain man, standing in his modest home, wielding his passion like a crowbar. At this close range he threatens to break open everything I have so carefully locked away. I grit my teeth and slowly reach for Harry’s hand. I hope he reads my silent determination, and we shake on it.

  “One more thing before I go,” I say, relieved to be changing the subject. “Are you on blood thinners?”

  “Yes, why do you …”

  “Then you might want to tell your doctor to back off on the Coumadin.”

  Harry pulls out a handkerchief to wipe his nose, and I can tell he’s intrigued. “How did you … ?”

  “The bruising under your fingernails. I pick up on the weirdest things.”

  And with that I head for the front door.

  To my surprise, Clint follows. She keeps her distance, her pace more of a plod than a trot. I can’t help thinking that she’s like the concerned relative who wants to take the doctor aside and have a word in private. In unison, we glance back at Harry. But he’s not looking at us. He’s staring at the empty dog bed, and I have the feeling he’s imagining a future he hopes he never has to see.

  The blast of cold air is like a slap.

  Unbelievable. I forgot to give Harry a bill.

  7

  Lewis is pulling out of the practice’s lot as I pull in. We align our vehicles for conversation, like police cruisers outside a Dunkin’ Donuts. He powers down the window on his truck, I crank the handle on mine.

  “How did it go?”

  “Okay,” I say.

  Lewis looks puzzled. “Just okay?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Harry seems like a nice guy, but the man’s a wreck about losing his dog. All that emotion … it’s disturbing.”

  Lewis shakes his head. “This is not like dropping off your car at the local garage and leaving it to be fixed. Owners need you to know why they are so invested in their animal’s well-being.”

  “But don’t you see, all it does is increases the pressure on the doctor to succeed. It’s not helpful. I saw what it did to Doc Cobb.”

  Something changes in Lewis’s features, like he sees a door open, just a crack, and leans in to see if it will give. “What did you see it do … to your father … exactly?”

  “You know how he was,” I say. “Work was his obsession. Owners would call at all hours of the day and night. He never said no. He never refused to go out on a call. Sometimes I wonder if they took advantage of his dedication, knowing it was his weakness. Whatever. All I know is Cobb had a hard time juggling veterinary medicine and his role as a husband, let alone as a father.”

  I’m grateful we’re separated by glass and steel, otherwise I’m sure Lewis would be encroaching on my personal space. I change the subject. “I’m not sure what’s going on with Clint.” I recite Clint’s history and clinical signs to see if the maestro has any pearls of wisdom he’s willing to share.

  “Sounds to me like a case of something and nothing. Probably work itself out. But the blood test was a good idea. Package it up and have Doris call FedEx.”

  “She’s back?”

  Lewis nods.

  “How long before we get the results?”

  “They’ll fax them over this time tomorrow.” And then, seeing my surprise, he adds, “We’re not that backward, you know. Hey, would you mind taking my afternoon appointments? It shouldn’t be too busy.”

  “Sure,” I say, waiting for the excuse or the explanation, but there’s nothing except his charming grin. He’s about to slip his truck into drive when I ask, “Not much of a haircut?”

  “What? Oh, yeah. It was a trim is all, tidy up the back.” He reaches a hand round to his neck where hair meets skin, as though he can feel the difference, even if it looks the same as when I last saw him. “Catch you later.”

  The dry electric heat is cranking inside, and there’s a woman standing in front of the examination room door who appears to be trapped in 1958. Maybe it’s the beehive haircut (tinted a yellow not found in nature). Maybe it’s the sticky orange lips surrounded by a halo of permanent wrinkle lines, almost certainly the result of a lifetime dedicated to sucking on cigarettes. Despite the warmth she wears a ski jacket, there’s a screwdriver in her hand, and she is in the process of taking down the DR. ROBERT COBB DVM plaque from the door.

  “Um … you must be Doris. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Ah, you must be Dr. Mills. I’m sorry, I thought I’d have this off before you got back.”

  “You can call me Cyrus.”

  Doris smiles. “That’s nice of you, but I’d prefer to stick to Dr. Mills. I did the same with Dr. Cobb. More professional. Reminds the public that you have earned a title, don’t you think?”

  “Well, I suppose so.” I wait a beat. “Can I help?”

  The plastic rectangular plaque pivots on the final loose screw, and for a few seconds it rocks back and forth like the broken hand on a clock.

  “Thank you but I’m nearly … there.”

  Now that she has it in her hand she takes a moment to study it, as though it is something entirely new.

  “Here. It’s yours,” she says, offering the plaque to me.

  I hesitate to take it, for reasons other than the trace of reluctance in her voice.

  “No.” I fake a smile. “You keep it.”

  She reciprocates with a fake smile of her own, there’s the briefest sparkle in her eyes, and the plaque disappears into her jacket pocket.

  “Would you like me to order another one?”

  Another Doc Cobb plaque? Though I graduated veterinary school as “Dr. Cyrus Cobb, DVM,” I switched to my mother’s maiden name as soon as I could. After what he put me through when she died, I needed to sever all ties, and that included ditching his last name.

  “Another one?” I ask.

  “Yes, another plaque?”

  “No, thank you, that won’t be necessary.” I’ll be back in Charleston before it arrives.

  Doris arches her penciled-in suit-yourself brows, crosses the room to her desk, and deposits the screws in a trash can. “There were two messages for you on the answering machine this morning.”

  “Yes, Doc Lewis told me. Doris, I, um … in the future, I wonder if you could write down any messages for me on a piece of paper. Especially if you are going to be away from the desk for an extended period of time.”

  Doris stops sifting through her pile of case records. Seconds pass, she keeps her head down, and then, quick as a chicken, her head jerks up, eyes meeting mine.

  “Of course, Dr Mills.” And then, “It’s just that … no … it was wrong of me to assume …”

  “Assume what?”

  Doris regards me with the kind of pained expression she might reserve for a simpleton who couldn’t possibly know better. “Let’s just say Dr. Cobb and I had
an understanding. He was busy and he appreciated me filtering out the pet owners who simply needed their hand held, leaving him to get on with the real problem cases.”

  “I see. And the messages from this morning?”

  “The first was from Crystal Haggerty. She said she enjoyed bumping into you last night and asked if you would call her.” Doris pauses for effect and then adds, “About her black Lab.”

  Crystal. Black Lab. The woman who lunged at me and wouldn’t let go. The woman who may have recognized Frieda. Everybody knows everybody in this town and clearly it took this “Crystal Haggerty” no time to track me down. How long before someone tracks down Frieda?

  “Don’t look so worried,” says Doris, though her grin suggests she is enjoying my discomfort. “I sorted her out. I know these clients. I know their history. I know their … reputations.”

  I sense Doris has much more to say on the subject of Crystal Haggerty, but she’s distracted by some loose papers on her desk. “Here, see, I wrote this one down. Anne Small, calling to see if anyone reported finding a golden retriever missing from last night. I’ve never heard of her, but I checked through our records. The dog’s no patient of ours. She probably goes to that new place across the valley in Patton.”

  Anne Small, presumably the woman out and about putting up posters with, I imagine, her daughter. Probably called the local police as well. They are doing everything by the book to find their lost dog. If only I could tell them Frieda had simply gone missing.

  “Did she leave a number?”

  Doris hands over the slip of paper, making no attempt to conceal her glee.

  I take it, pull out my cell phone, and thumb to recent calls. It is the same number I called earlier. Charcoal suit man.

  “If you’d prefer to know about every single call I’m more than happy to oblige. No skin off my nose.”

  I consider. I’m sure she did make Doc Cobb’s life a whole lot easier, but then again, how many genuinely sick animals and how much business fell through the cracks? “Perhaps, for now, it would be best, okay?”

  This seems as good a time as any to institute some crucial managerial changes. “Do you happen to have a Sharpie and two pieces of paper?”

  Doris says nothing, pulls open a drawer below her desk, and hands over the marker and two sheets of A4.

  In bold block capitals I write: New Hours: Now Open Saturday 9:00 AM to 5:00 PM.

  “Here you go,” I say, handing it over. “Please tape this to the front door. I know it’s short notice, but I hope you’re available to help out.”

  Doris takes the sheet of paper. “I’m available. But it’ll cost you. Time and a half.”

  Wow, contract negotiations straight off the bat. “Fine,” I say, like I’ve got money to burn.

  On the second sheet of paper I write: Payment in full is expected at the time of service.

  “Hang this up in the waiting room. Somewhere everyone will see it.”

  I’m treated to a slow single nod of acquiescence. “Will that be all?”

  “Thank you, I’ll let you go. I’ve got some blood samples to package up. You think you could let FedEx know I’ve got a shipment?”

  “Of course.”

  I leave her standing there and head for the work area in the back. I don’t quite make it.

  “It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?”

  I turn to face her. There’s that smile again. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Since you were last here, in Eden Falls.”

  Doris appears genuinely interested, but she’s not fooling me. I reckon Robert Cobb’s receptionist knows much more than she’s prepared to let on.

  “Many, many years, Doris.”

  “At least twenty,” she says.

  “That’s how long you worked for him?”

  “That’s right. A finer man you will not meet.”

  She says this as though I never knew him. I’m betting Doris knows about the will and the unhappy details of my estrangement from this so-called fine man.

  “Notice any changes in the place?” she asks.

  “To be honest I haven’t had much of a chance to look around. But I will.”

  Doris begins to nod, excessively, as though she can hardly wait to get where she wants to go with this line of questioning. I try again to reach the door. My hand makes it to the handle.

  “I wonder if anyone will recognize you after all this time?”

  I spin around, struggling to keep the tetchy edge from my voice. “What are you implying, Doris?”

  Doris twists her lines and wrinkles and somehow produces a look approaching surprise. “Nothing, nothing at all. Only, I imagine you’ve lost some hair, gained a few pounds, and these days you talk with a bit of an accent. Plenty of folks might think you’re a complete stranger to town.”

  My turn, but my surprise is genuine. I’ve become used to Lewis and his tactful dance around the subjects of Ruth Mills and Bobby Cobb. Clearly, Doris has a different approach. I straighten up and try to stand a little taller. (Hey, you sit in front of a microscope every day and see what it does to your posture.) Time to clarify my situation. “If someone recognizes me as the son of Robert Cobb, so be it.”

  “Really? You think that’s best for the practice?”

  My mouth hangs open.

  “I mean, it’s bound to raise questions,” she says. “The name change, the no-show at your mother’s funeral, the no-show at your father’s funeral?”

  She sounds as though she’s lamenting my shortcomings, like I forgot to turn up for a dental appointment. My tongue remains paralyzed as the waiting room door swings open and in walks a teenage girl carrying a cardboard cat carrier.

  There’s an awkward silence, as if she may have interrupted a married couple engaged in a squabble.

  I lean in to Doris and breathe in the nicotine-infused beehive. “There are two sides to every story.” I turn to face the newcomer. “I’m sorry but I don’t start seeing appointments again until one thirty.”

  The girl looks surprised and makes a show of consulting her watch.

  Doris inches a little closer to me. “Dr. Cobb always made a point of never turning away a sick animal.” And the fixed expression she leaves me with is totally, but that’s up to you.

  Boy, I’m using up my quota of fake smiles for one day. “Won’t you join me in the examination room while Doris locates your file.”

  The girl can’t be more than eighteen years old, if that, with the kind of piercings guaranteed to draw the eye—nasal, septum, and lip—and cause the un-pierced among us to think about what happens to the metal and mucus when you catch a cold. Her hair has to be dyed, it’s simply too black in contrast to skin so white she looks like she’s ready for a cameo in another vampire movie. Her unzipped and ratty coat falls open to reveal an enormous bulge under a T-shirt that reads Fat People are hard to kidnap!

  “When’s your due date?” Though there’s a risk my question is politically incorrect, when something is so patently obvious my mouth usually betrays me.

  “Last Tuesday.”

  No rings on any fingers. Some might think it’s a precaution against perinatal swelling. I’m thinking she’s a single mom.

  “They didn’t want to induce you?” I ask, placing the surprisingly heavy carrier on the examination table, closing the door behind us, and helping the girl take a seat.

  “Next Monday, but I’m like, hoping to have him on Friday.”

  “Why Friday?”

  “Because it’s a full moon and it’s the thirteenth.”

  She says this in all seriousness, with an innocence that is almost as refreshing as it is scary.

  I nod, as though this makes perfect sense to me too.

  “How far is it to the nearest delivery room?”

  “Like fifteen miles, but this time of year with the snow and the ice it’s literally going to take me an hour.”

  I nod. “Induction might be the best way to go.”

  She studies me and says, “Yo
u talk a bit like Forrest Gump. You’re not from round here, are you?”

  “No,” I say. “No, I’m not.”

  “You work for the little old man?”

  “Kind of. We’re working together. I’m Dr. Mills, from South Carolina.”

  “I’m Denise,” she says, “and this is my little Tina.”

  “And what’s going on with your … little … Tina?”

  “You tell me, Doctor Gump,” she says, reaching a hand to her lips too late, as though she is not in the least bit sorry.

  But you ain’t got no legs, Lieutenant Dan.

  I can’t help but laugh. I open the carrier, reach inside, and pull out a large black cat. Tina may be shy and a little frightened, but she is wonderfully compliant. She stays where I place her, pressing her many love handles flat to the metallic table. I’m guessing she weighs around twenty pounds but to be fair, there’s more to Tina than can be explained by an excess of canned tuna. I risk the same assumption twice in one day.

  “Is she pregnant too?”

  Denise nods. “I’m pretty sure she’s at, like, day sixty-six,” she says. “Doc Lewis told me to check back.”

  Day sixty-six is the feline equivalent of nine months. I whip out my stethoscope, listen to Tina’s chest, take her temperature, gently palpate her Buddha belly. Everything seems to be in order.

  Pedigree cats have a much higher risk of a difficult labor than cats of mixed breeding.

  “What was that?” asks Denise.

  I chance a peek under her tail—prominent genitalia but no discharge.

  “Oh, nothing. What makes Doc Lewis so concerned?”

  “Her broken pelvis,” says Denise. She stands up, takes the cat’s pointy face in her hands, and plants a kiss on its black nose. “She’s, like, an indoor cat. Or supposed to be. She escaped, years ago, gone for, like, a week and when she came back she was all, like, skin and bones and dragging her legs. Doc Cobb, you know, the vet who died, he looked at Tina for me, even though I had no money and he was like, ‘ah, she’ll heal just fine.’ Guess he was right.