by S. Bennett
If not for the shallow breathing from the puppy I might have stood there for much longer, but I’m reminded this dog could very well be dying in my hands.
I move for the door and push it confidently open.
The lobby is small with only four plastic chairs on metal legs and one table with a browned plant on it. Several of its leaves have fallen off to litter the floor. There’s a door to the right, one to the left, and a recessed window straight ahead behind which a receptionist might sit. It’s dim, as the man hadn’t bothered to turn on any lights, and I see neither hide nor hair of him.
“Hello,” I call out as I walk to the window.
“Get back here and let me see what you got,” his Scrooge-like southern voice demands of me through the door on the left.
I go through it, finding a small exam room. The vet is standing behind a metal table with a short counter behind him. It has a sink and some basic medical supplies. He’s put on a white lab coat that says “Dr. Peele” written in blue embroidery, and has a stethoscope around his neck. He taps one hand impatiently on the table; the other presses down onto the top of his cane as he leans his weight onto it.
Jerking his head toward the table, he impatiently gestures for me to put the puppy down.
I comply and the pitiful creature sort of splays out, legs going in four different directions and its head falling limply to the steel-colored top. My nose starts to tingle with emotion, and I hope to God I don’t start blubbering like a baby. I’m a crier by nature.
“Get hit by a car?” the vet asks.
Shaking my head, I explain my morning and how I found it wrapped in barbed wire in a ditch. The puppy doesn’t move at all, and I can’t even tell if it’s breathing anymore.
Even though the vet has an expression on his face like I just shit in his coffee or something, he jumps into action. Or rather, he moves very slowly and gingerly as he attempts to examine the puppy. Leaning his cane against the table, he presses his hip to the edge for balance and to free his hands. He deftly picks the dog up and feels gently around. His fingers come away covered in the same blood and mud that mine are. He lays the pup back down, then uses his stethoscope to listen for something.
Breathing?
Heart beat?
Any sign of life?
Lifting his head, the doctor glares at me. “I’m going to have to wash him off. He might need stitches, and I can’t see what I’m working with. No clue if anything’s broken. That would take x-rays, but right now its pulse is so weak I’m not sure it’s worth the effort.”
“But you have to try,” I say, the overt begging tone in my voice startling me.
It’s not that I don’t beg, because I have before and often, but that was when I truly needed help. After so many times of trying to get it and not receiving it, I’ve let that tactic fall by the wayside. But this puppy shouldn’t produce that type of reaction from me. I’ve never begged on anyone or anything’s behalf before, and there’s no reason to start now. I’ve got myself to worry about.
“I’ll need a deposit of a hundred dollars,” he replies with a stubborn tilt to his jaw. “And of course, it could be more than that if we have to do x-rays.”
That’s simply not going to work for me. “I have eight bucks in my back pocket. That’s all I got.”
“Then I can’t treat the animal,” he grouses. “I got to eat, too, you know.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?” There’s no hiding the panic now. I can’t take this dog out of here to watch it die.
As if on cue, the puppy moves.
Actually lifts its head and opens those little eyes, fixing me with one orb of chocolate and the other of ice. It chuffs and stares at me expectantly, as if it knows its entire existence is completely within my power.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt more helpless.
I move my pleading gaze back to the vet. “Please… you have to help it.”
“I will if you can pay for my services,” he says stubbornly. “If I treated every sob story that walked in here for free, I’d be homeless.”
“So what?” I demand. “You’re just going to kick us out of here and let it suffer to death?”
“God no,” he gasps indignantly, sincerely appalled I’d suggest such a thing. “I’d euthanize it. It’s the humane thing to do.”
“Oh, can you do that for eight dollars?” I retort sarcastically.
“I never charge for that,” he returns in a miffed voice. “And I bury all the animals on my farm outside of town.”
That mollifies me somewhat, but it’s not good enough.
For some reason, there’s only one thing that will occur here today to satisfy me, and that’s for this dog to survive.
No, to thrive.
It’s the only acceptable future I foresee right now. I have no clue what’s going to become of me tomorrow, but this fucking dog is going to make it.
The little thing is still staring at me, head all wobbly and body shivering. It gives a pathetic onetime thump of its tail as if to say, “See… I’m a fighter. Give me a chance to live.”
My gaze slides up to the vet, who seems as cold and standoffish as ever before. I take in a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Please… please help this dog. I don’t have money now, but I’ll find some way to pay you. I’ll work for free. I’ll dig graves on your farm. Anything you want, but please… save this dog. I’m begging you.”
The old man stares at me, and I realize his eyes are blue, the same pale color as the dog’s one eye. They’re frosty—made even colder looking by his snowy white hair—and he’s seemingly unmoved by my plea.
I brace myself for his refusal, which makes my legs almost give way as he points to the sink. “Bring the dog over there. Help me clean it up first.”
A surge of hope explodes within me, and it’s so vibrant I can almost see it. Golden and warm like rays of afternoon sunlight, chasing away every bit of coldness within me.
“Okay,” I say with a tremulous smile. I swear I see a flash of gratitude in the dog’s eyes before I pick it up.
CHAPTER 4
Hazel
There’s no struggle from the dog as I hold it over the sink while Dr. Peele runs a gentle spray of warm water over it. Thick mud and slime starts to slither away before circling down the drain. Pink streams of watered-down blood wash away and little by little, black, brown, and white fur is revealed.
I move the puppy this way and that, carefully supporting his head like I would a newborn. Not that I have any experience with those, but I’ve seen it done on TV. This dog is like a brand-new baby just brought into the world. Actually, it’s probably weaker. His rib bones feel too sharp under my fingers as I cradle him.
The entire time he washes the dog, Dr. Peele mutters curses—of the fairly tame variety—punctuated with condemning clauses for whoever landed this poor thing in that ditch.
What the holy hell is the matter with people?
Damn miscreants is what they are.
Take ’em out and shoot ’em is what I’d do.
Finally, after all the gunk is washed from the fur, he says in an almost reverent tone of voice, “I’ll be damned… it’s a Bernese Mountain Dog. A boy, too.”
“A what?” I ask.
“A Bernese Mountain Dog. Not a very common breed and quite expensive. Originating in Bern, Switzerland, they’re originally farm dogs, pulling carts and such.”
“Never heard of it.”
“See the distinctive coloring of its fur?” he says, pointing with his finger. “Mostly black with brown legs and white paws. White fur in the shape of a cross on its chest, white on the snout and top of head with some brown at the side of the face.”
He points all of these areas out, sounding like a science professor giving a class lecture.
“And look at those eyebrows.” He rubs a thumb over one of them.
I did. They’re brown against the jet-black fur on the dog’s face and I have to admit, they lend a certain amount of charact
er.
“What about his blue eye? Is he blind?”
“Nah,” the vet says with a corresponding shake of his head. “Just has a blue eye. But if you were to show this dog, it’s not part of the standard so it makes the dog worthless.”
“He’s not worthless,” I snap at him.
How could anything that cute be worthless?
“Well, it would be to someone trying to make a big buck off this dog. These sell upward of fifteen hundred, two thousand bucks.”
“You’re kidding?” I ask, startled. I had no clue dogs could cost that much money. Who would pay that much money for a dog?
“Want my guess as to what happened?” he asks, but he really doesn’t care what my opinion is because he tells me without waiting for a response. “A breeder chucked this dog into the ditch rather than try to at least adopt it out or sell it for a nominal amount. Probably didn’t want to have to list the dog as part of the litter and dilute the standard.”
“That’s awful,” I murmur, but I have a hard time believing that theory. That puppy could have ended up in the ditch for any number of reasons.
“People are awful,” he replies bitterly, and it makes me wonder ever so briefly what his story is.
I want him to be wrong about the ugly side of humanity, so I challenge him. “That’s a pessimistic view.”
The look he gives me tells me I’m a naive dumbass. “Trust me, missy, you live in this world long enough, you see there’s more bad than good in your average human.”
“Sounds like there’s a story there,” I observe softly. “And my name is Hazel…Hazel Roundtree. Not missy.”
Dr. Peele refuses to acknowledge my nosiness into his life and the given name I offered. Instead, he opens a cabinet above the sink to grab a towel. We both work to gently rub the wet fur, and I’m thrilled to see the puppy seems to have revived a bit. He’s squirmy and lets out a few yips, although they are remarkably weak sounding. I think the warm bath helped to reinvigorate him, but he eventually goes limp again with what I’m betting is exhaustion, dehydration, and starvation.
Cradling the puppy inside the towel, I take him back over to the examination table upon the veterinarian’s orders. His energy expended from the bath, the sick dog again flops onto his belly with his legs splaying outward and his chin resting on the cool metal.
“Hold him still,” the vet orders as he grabs a pair of electric clippers from a drawer. He plugs it in and turns it on. I gently hold the puppy, lest he get freaked out from the buzzing, but he doesn’t even move. He just watches with flat eyes. The vet efficiently shaves the areas around the small puncture wounds—a few on his sides over his rib area and one in his back haunch.
Next, Dr. Peele pours an antiseptic-type solution on each area. They’ve thankfully stopped oozing blood. He gently pats it dry with a gauze pad. “I’m going to leave these areas open rather than stitch them up.”
“Why’s that?”
He spares me a glance, but then goes back to his work dabbing the wounds dry. “No clue how long that pup was down in that ditch and what’s inside those wounds. It’s best to leave them open so they can be cleaned a few times a day. Also going to put him on an oral antibiotic to fight off any potential infection.”
Sounds like a good plan to me, I guess. Not that I know a damn thing about dogs with puncture wounds.
“Good news is I don’t think there’s anything obviously broken so we could skip x-rays,” he says briskly, yet his hands are incredibly gentle while he works. “He wasn’t in any obvious pain as I was washing him.”
I don’t reply, just continue to stroke the puppy’s head while the doc works. He’s not going anywhere due to his pitiful state right now, but somehow, I feel he needs a comforting hand.
“But,” Dr. Peele continues, his tone turning dire. “He’s not in good shape. He’s extremely malnourished. I estimate he’s between eight and ten weeks old.”
Picking the puppy up, he hobbles without his cane back to the counter where there’s a small scale. Clucking his tongue and shaking his head, he pulls the dog back off. “Only nine pounds. He should be upward of fifteen at this point.”
This doesn’t surprise me. I’ve felt his bones through his skin. I’ve heard the sounds his tummy makes.
“Should we feed him?” I ask. “Like… does he need milk or something?”
“He’s old enough to have been weaned.”
I don’t know what “weaned” means, but I suspect he doesn’t need milk. This is confirmed as he continues. “You can buy a can of dog food off me with that eight dollars you have in your pocket.” His tone is haughty, and no doubt meant to remind me nothing we’re doing here is free.
Handing me the dog, Dr. Peele grabs his cane and hobbles over to the sink to wash his hands. “I’ve got my first appointment to get ready for. You can feed the dog.”
I’m given a very quick tour of the rest of the clinic. There’s a room that runs the length of the back of the building that seems to be multipurpose. There are storage racks filled with medical supplies, medicines, food, and even office supplies. The tile floor is scuffed and faded. There’s a small bathroom at one end, a refrigerator, a table holding a microwave, and another table with two chairs. One wall has stacked wire kennels of various sizes and Dr. Peele tells me they were once for boarding, but he doesn’t do that anymore.
“Too hard on my old bones to come here several times a day to care for them,” he says bitterly.
I don’t ask why he doesn’t have employees. I just inherently sense this man’s veterinary practice is dying a slow death, and it’s related to the fact he’s old as dirt and can’t do what he once did. Plus, he’s cranky as hell, which doesn’t lend to a good customer experience.
He shows me where the food and bowls are. Provides me with a tiny collar for the puppy and a leash so I can take him out to the bathroom after. I’m pointed to a rear entrance door I’m to use that will have a small patch of grass he can do his business on.
And then I’m left alone with this little miracle dog that’s not going to die today.
As his fur dries, it becomes fuzzy and puffs out all over the place. I open a can of dog food and per Dr. Peele’s instructions, I sit on the floor and hand feed it to the dog, so he doesn’t eat too much too fast and get sick.
At first, the little guy isn’t all that interested, but once I push my finger in his mouth with a tiny bit of the disgusting-smelling meat concoction on it, it’s like a light bulb goes on inside his head and he becomes ravenous.
Sharp puppy teeth bite into the pad of my finger before he starts to use his tongue. It’s almost as if he forgot the mechanics of how to eat.
I pull him onto my lap and the more he eats off my fingers, the more his tail starts to wag. It’s as if every tiny bite gives him strength and renewed purpose. Little growling sounds emit from him, but they don’t sound ominous. They sound ridiculously happy, in fact.
After a few moments, I have a vague sensation… a cramping in my face. My cheeks are sore, and I realize I’m smiling like a damn fool.
Dipping the tip of my finger into the food again, I realize I’ve fed him much more than the quarter of a can Dr. Peele had instructed me to. He told me he’d want more, but that we needed to go slowly with him as his stomach would no doubt be incredibly shrunken.
“Shit,” I say, wiping the dog food off on the lip of the bowl and then letting the pup lick the remainder off. He growls deep in his throat, asking for more.
I pick him up gently, aware of the puncture wounds from the barbed wire and hold him up so we can look eye to eye. Supporting him with one hand at his chest, I cradle him under his butt with the other. “Sorry, little man… have to take a break. I don’t want you to barf up all that good nutrition.”
He gives me a solemn look of understanding. I lean in, and his tongue comes out to lick the tip of my nose. A shiver runs through me as if my soul craved that brief kiss of gratitude.
The door to the storage/break/kenn
el room opens, and I guiltily jerk back from the puppy as if it’s wrong to be having such a good time. Dr. Peele sticks his head in, his eyes going down to the food bowl. He makes no comment on the fact I’ve overfed his patient.
“Take him outside,” he orders gruffly. “I’m getting ready to close up shop. No more appointments today.”
CHAPTER 5
Atticus
That food is delicious!
I need more, more, more, more.
The girl called Hazel cradles me to her chest as she peers up at the grumpy old doctor. He was very gentle with me, but I could tell by the tone of his voice he’s an unhappy man.
I feel a little icky in my belly and I think I need to poop, but I’m not about to do that while I sit on Hazel’s lap. That would just be impolite.
I think I might throw up when Hazel sits me down on the floor, but it passes quickly. She stands up to face the man who gave me a bath and made me feel a little better.
“Be here tomorrow at ten so you can start working off your bill,” the old doctor says to Hazel. I can tell he’s a very no-nonsense type of person. “You can bring him back with you, and I’ll check him out. No charge for that.”
My ears perk slightly. Bring him back? Does that mean I’m leaving with Hazel?
“Wait,” Hazel exclaims, and I don’t like the sound of her voice. Instinctively, I pounce on her shoe and grab her laces in my teeth. I clamp my mouth shut and throw my head side to side, pulling on them so I get her attention. “I can’t take him home with me,” she adds.
“Why not?” the doctor asks as he leans heavily on his walking stick. I give him a glance while I attack her laces, and he seems very weary. He smells old, so I expect he’s very tired.
Hazel starts telling the doctor all of her woes. “Well, Dr. Peele… I don’t really have a home. I mean… I’m sleeping on a friend’s couch for now.”
He doesn’t say a word. Just stares at her blankly while I growl in my throat, tugging, tugging, tugging on her shoestrings.