Atticus

by S. Bennett

  “Cary let you do that?” he inquires skeptically.

  A pointedly cocked eyebrow from me gives him his answer. “He never goes in the storeroom. What he doesn’t know won’t kill him.”

  “Just don’t get caught.” His warning isn’t needed, but he’s only saying it because he cares for me. “After I finish for the night, I’m going to go around the back of the building. I want to see that pup of yours.”

  “Are you serious?” I ask incredulously. I mean… we’re friends, but we’re just bar acquaintances. And yes, he gives off that benevolent-dad kind of vibe when we talk, but he’s showing true interest in something I actually care about.

  It’s kind of humbling as well as confusing.

  “Of course I want to see that dog,” he says with a grin that’s blinding against his black skin. “I love animals, and besides… I’d like to lay eyes on the thing that has the apparent power to change your life.”

  “My life hasn’t changed that much,” I respond drolly.

  “You’re wrong, Hazel. It’s changed completely,” he replies with such confidence I wouldn’t be surprised if he lugged around a crystal ball in his old backpack.

  Bernard and I chitchat over the few hours it takes him to drink his four beers. It’s mostly about Atticus, and I feel like a dolt sometimes the way I gush over the dog. But Bernard humors me and listens attentively. He tells me stories about childhood dogs he had growing up in Philly, and that he had a beagle mix back when he was married that lived to be almost fifteen.

  After his beers, he meets me around the back of the building. I let Atticus take a quick pee, and then Bernard gets in some quick cuddles. Atticus puts his paws on Bernard’s scruffy cheeks and licks him with exuberance. Maybe this dog will like everyone it meets, or maybe he’s just a good judge of character. I suspect it’s the latter with Bernard.

  When I head back into the bar and move to where Bernard was sitting to take his empty mug, I note he’d tucked a five-dollar bill under it. That big jerk gave me that eight-dollar tip, and it makes my eyes prick with tears over his generosity and kindness.

  CHAPTER 12

  Hazel

  When I walk into the parking lot of Dr. Peele’s clinic on Monday morning, I’m surprised to find him sitting in his car with the engine running. He rolls down the window as I approach with Atticus tucked under an arm and a layer of sweat on my face because he’s feeling heavy as hell and the walk was long. But the minute he started lagging and showing fatigue on our hike, I picked him up.

  Ideally, I would have stopped to let him rest a bit, but Dr. Peele made it clear he expects me to be on time. While I’m not going to be handed a paycheck for my time, I still treat this like a job. I may be weak in a lot of ways, but one of my strengths is my work ethic. I got that from my dad, straight up.

  “Good morning,” I say brightly.

  “Get in the car,” Dr. Peele orders me with that grouchy voice and a thin-lipped grimace he seems to wear a lot.

  I don’t think to question him and do as he says, putting Atticus on my lap and maneuver the seat belt around us both so he’s protected, too. Just to be sure, I wrap my arms around him. He has absolutely no qualms about snuggling into me.

  Yeah… we’ve become snugglers over the weekend.

  I managed to work Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night with Atticus in the storeroom and Cary none the wiser. Charmin worked the same shifts as me, so she wasn’t going to rat me out. The only perilous part was one night, Chuck came into the bar and got so drunk he was practically falling off his stool. He was also talking loudly and mentioned Atticus in the back room. Luckily, the music was loud enough Cary didn’t hear him and Charmin did a good job of getting Chuck to quiet down.

  As far as how Atticus did those evenings in the storeroom, I’m kind of proud of the little guy. Sure, he likes to chew things, but I figure that’s a puppy thing, right? So that first night, I made him a bed from an old towel, put his food and water bowl down, and left three toys for him to occupy himself with. I’m ashamed to say they were hand-me-downs from Amy in apartment number four that secrets away her bulldog from the landlord. We sometimes shared early morning pee meetings out on the front grass, and she offered up the toys when I told her that we were playing tug-of-war with socks.

  Being able to check on my puppy frequently helped, and he also sleeps a lot because I assume he’s still gaining strength. But a few times during my shifts, either from boredom or maybe even just curiosity as to how they tasted, Atticus chewed up the corners of some of the cases of beer. This wasn’t a big deal since the empty cardboard cases went straight into the recycle bin, and he didn’t seem to be ingesting the stuff.

  The only rough part of this situation was I couldn’t check on him frequently enough to prevent some accidents. Cleaning up dog piddle isn’t that bad, but I have a weak stomach and his dog poop had me gagging hard. Charmin just kept telling me to breathe through my mouth and not my nose, but that grossed me out. I thought I could taste the shit on my tongue when I tried it.

  Outside of those seven-hour shifts Thursday through Saturday, I spent all of my time and focus on Atticus. Amy taught me a few training tricks, and I bought a bag of cheap kibble and used the little pieces as reward treats. By Sunday afternoon, Atticus knew his name and had already mastered how to sit on command.

  On top of that, he was starting to understand that he was to pee and poop outside. I think because I take him out every hour, and heavily praise him when he goes, going potty is a fun thing for him. He even started going to the door and pulling on his leash I kept looped over the doorknob when he wanted to go out. Because I was hypervigilant, I never missed one of his cues, and he has not had an accident in the apartment.

  So far—knock on wood—this raising a puppy thing is a piece of cake.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “House call,” he replies curtly, shifting the car into reverse. He doesn’t provide more detail, but I wait until we get out on the road so as not to distract him.

  “What type of house call?” I ask, just wanting to make conversation. Perhaps crack his grumpy exterior. He’s becoming sort of a challenge to me and since it will take me a few weeks to work off my debt to him, I might as well try to get to know the old man.

  “One of my patients is at the end,” he replies. He drives slowly with both hands gripped tight on the wheel.

  “The end of what?” I ask.

  “End of her life.” His voice is gruff. It doesn’t seem to be born from his killjoy demeanor, but more of emotion. “A little dachshund I’ve cared for since her owners brought her home. She’s fourteen, and it’s time.”

  I’m speechless for a moment. It’s not until I’ve pulled Atticus into me extra tightly I realize this has more of an effect on me than I’d like. I just got my dog. I’m not ready for him to die.

  I’m also not ready to watch another dog die.

  “How do you know when it’s time?” I ask after a slight cough to clear the fear for my own dog out of my throat.

  Dr. Peele spares a moment to give me a glance before turning back to the road. “It’s personal. Some owners let it go on way too long, unable to let their friend go. Others do it too soon, because they don’t want the expense or responsibility of caring for a sick animal. Others just know exactly when the right time is, because they are so in tune with their pet. Usually if there’s pain involved, or if they lose the basic ability to move about freely. Someone who truly loves their animal can look into their eyes, and they just know.”

  As if on cue, Atticus throws his head back to look at me. There’s no doubt in my mind that truth-teller eye will let me know. But all I see right now is a whole lot of puppy spirit and bright future staring back at me.

  “How will you do it?” I ask, knowing animals are euthanized, but not sure how.

  Without taking his eyes off the road, Dr. Peele describes a two-injection process through an IV catheter. The first medication to sedate, the second to stop t
he heart from beating.

  “I call it killing them softly,” he says, his voice so gentle and tender I can barely hear him. “It’s a beautiful and peaceful way to die. It’s an honor for me to help them make that transition.”

  My head snaps to the right where I stare out the window, furiously blinking back the tears from my eyes. For all the grouchy, assholish ways this man has treated me on most occasions, I just realized he may have one of the kindest hearts I’ve known.

  ♦

  That was an experience I hope to never have to repeat, although I know it’s impossible for Atticus to live forever.

  And Dr. Peele was right.

  It was a beautiful way to die.

  What I hated was the choking, palpable grief Bernice’s owners were exhibiting. Giant fat tears and wracking sobs as they held onto each other. Bernie, as they affectionately called her, was like their child.

  Their only child.

  Gone was the grouch I’d known in Dr. Peele, and instead he was a calming influence on them. He explained clearly what he would do, and then encouraged Bernie’s parents to get right down on the living room floor with her while he started the IV.

  We’d left Atticus in the car with it running and the AC cranked even though it was still in the low sixties this morning. Dr. Peele offered no explanation, but I figured it out on my own. Why drag my cute, lovable dog in to these peoples’ house when they were getting ready to suffer the loss of their own cute, lovable dog?

  Yeah, I got it.

  When Dr. Peele injected the sedative, Bernie gave a sigh of what I’d term relief and her eyes slowly closed as if she were drifting off to sleep. Bernie’s dad made a choking sound as if he were trying to swallow his tears, and Bernie’s mom wept with her hand stroking this little dog’s back.

  It was almost more than I could bear and when I felt the prickles in my nose indicating tears were coming next, I made myself think of my dad’s funeral. I was filled with such pain over losing him, and yet I wouldn’t let myself cry in front of everyone. Stuffing it down inside, I put a cork in it. I gritted my teeth to keep them from chattering over the effort of remaining stoic and detached. After all, I had to prove to everyone I was okay. That my life was everything I’d hoped it would be and more.

  Watching Bernie die pulled up a lot of emotion, but I tamped it down so no one could see it. Besides, it wasn’t my grief that was important. It was theirs.

  The ride back to the clinic is silent. I’m processing what just happened, and Dr. Peele is in his own world. Perhaps he’s sorrowful right now, or perhaps he’s slipped back into curmudgeon mode. After Bernie’s heart stopped beating, Dr. Peele didn’t ask for any type of payment. They had chosen to keep Bernie to place her under her favorite oak tree rather than let Dr. Peele bury her on his farm, to which I was thankful. I imagine I would be digging a grave today if that were the case.

  Dr. Peele pulls in parallel to the vet clinic and puts it in park. Groaning as he leans to the side which puts pressure on his bum hip, he pulls out a set of keys and hands them over to me. “Clean up the place.”

  “Excuse me?” I say as I take the keys. Atticus immediately lunges for them, thinking they’re a toy because they make jingle-jangle sounds.

  “Clean up.”

  I blink at him. “You’re leaving?”

  “Got no other appointments today, and I’m not feeling all that well. So yeah… I’m leaving.”

  “And what do you want me to do with the keys when I’m done?”

  Dr. Peele raises his head dramatically upward as if beseeching God for someone smarter to deal with before looking back at me. “Why, you’ll keep them, of course. And use them the next time you need to come to work that I don’t feel like it. Not rocket science, Hazel.”

  “Okay,” I snap back at him, angrily pushing the car door open. Clearly, it’s a spare set. He could have just said that. I swing out, clutching Atticus and the keys.

  “We’ll weigh the pup tomorrow,” he says out of the blue, and in a way, I think because he’s sorry he just pretty much called me an idiot. “Get his shots done, too, okay?”

  “Okay.” My voice is respectful but leery as I turn back to face him, bending so I can see inside the car to give him my attention. I don’t know where I stand with this man so it’s best to remain aloof. Trust doesn’t come easy to me, and he’s not helping matters.

  “Okay,” he says and nods at the car door in a silent command I close it.

  I do, and he leaves.

  Inside the clinic, I get to work. Because he rarely utilizes his space, there’s not much to do. I’d swept and mopped on Friday, and the floors are still pristine. Still, I do it again and it’s not much of a hardship. Atticus loves chasing after the mop. He grabs hold of the stringed ends and I pull him across the floor while he growls at it.

  Just as I’m finishing the lobby, the phone starts ringing. I don’t even think to ignore it, concerned Dr. Peele might miss a patient. I know the man could use the business.

  I answer the phone in my most professional voice, which is never really utilized when serving beer. “Onslow Veterinary Hospital.”

  “Yes, hi,” a woman says, sounding flustered. “I would like to make an appointment to see Dr. Peele as soon as possible.”

  “Are you a current patient?” I ask, searching around the desk top for a pad of paper to write on.

  “I am,” she replies. “He’s been treating our animals for decades.”

  I spy a spiral-bound appointment calendar sitting on a shelfing unit next to the desk. Opening it up to today’s date, I see Bernie written in shaky lettering during the ten-thirty slot. There’s nothing listed after, just as Dr. Peele had said.

  I flip to tomorrow’s date, and it’s completely empty. “Um… what time were you wanting to come in? Perhaps we can work you in.”

  I don’t know why I said that when his calendar is completely empty, but I don’t want this patient to know Dr. Peele doesn’t have much of a thriving practice these days.

  “Anytime,” she says quickly. “I’ll take any slot you have.”

  “I think I can fit you in tomorrow at eleven.”

  She gives a shriek of excitement. “Oh my God. That’s wonderful. Praise Jesus.”

  Her overabundant enthusiasm worries me, and I’m afraid her animal might be in peril because she’s so thankful, so I ask, “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Oh, Granger has another hot spot, this time on his jaw. He gets them all the time. He got one last month, but Dr. Peele was completely booked and couldn’t get us in. I had to go to another vet, and Granger was so nervous. It was just stressful, and we really want Dr. Peele to treat this.”

  The minute she said Granger had a hot spot last month, my fingers started flipping backward through the days on the calendar.

  Day after day, mostly empty, with only an appointment here and there. I bet he saw on average maybe only five patients a week. He most certainly wasn’t booked a month ago.

  “Well, let’s put you down for eleven tomorrow.”

  She gives me her name, which I carefully write next to the word “Granger” in the eleven o’clock slot. I also take her phone number because I have no clue if Dr. Peele is even going to show up tomorrow, so I might need to cancel her at the last moment.

  After profusive thanks and proclamations that she couldn’t wait to meet me tomorrow because I’ve been so nice, I hang up the phone. Atticus is curled into a little ball at my feet. He looks up at me from beneath those fuzzy brown eyebrows as if to say, You’re going to be in so much trouble for doing that.

  I shrug. If Dr. Peele yells at me, so be it. That’s about all he can do to me.

  CHAPTER 13

  Hazel

  Atticus and I are already in the clinic by the time Dr. Peele shows up at fifteen till ten. He has no appointments scheduled—at least to his knowledge—so I have to wonder why he comes in at all. Certainly it’s not to give me direction, but it could be to check up on me.

&nb
sp; I would have called him to give him a head’s-up about the appointment, but I don’t know his home phone number and have no clue if he has a cell. A cursory look through the receptionist desk hadn’t found his contact information.

  Dr. Peele finds Atticus and me in the lobby waiting for him. He looks surprised to see us there, but quickly masks it by glaring at me. Atticus—who I have found is not fickle when it comes to humans—bolts straight to Dr. Peele for some attention. With a long-suffering groan, Dr. Peele bends over with an actual honest-to-God smile on his face and scratches my dog behind his ears. “Howdy-do, Mr. Finch,” he says with a chuckle.

  Atticus preens over his nickname or perhaps from the ear scratches, but he grins up at Dr. Peele with his tongue hanging out all dopey like.

  Dr. Peele puts a hand to his lower back, groaning again as he straightens. He leans heavily onto his cane, which I note takes pressure off his left leg. “Why are you here so early?” he demands, the smile now gone from his face. I get I’m not as cute as Atticus, but geez… some basic nice manners would be good.

  “Good morning to you, too,” I say with a falsely sweet voice. I stand from the plastic chair I’d been waiting in, letting Atticus chew on the laces of my fake Chucks that are older than dirt. Atticus, oblivious to Dr. Peele’s sour tone and my sarcastically saccharine words, puts his paws on Dr. Peele’s knee and barks at him for attention.

  “Atticus,” I say firmly, and his head rolls my way. His tail is wagging, and he’s still smiling big as only this dog can. “Sit.”

  His front paws hit the worn tile floor, followed by his butt in a completely obedient move. He’s shaking with excitement, though. Atticus can’t hold a sit for very long before he bursts out in joyful abandon, so I quickly praise him with a “That’s a good boy”.

  “Impressive,” Dr. Peele mutters, giving me the compliment even though he’s staring at Atticus.

  Big mistake. As soon as he makes eye contact with Atticus, my dog takes that as open invitation to jump on him because he has translated his expression into some type of promise of reciprocal adoration. He jumps up on Dr. Peele again, who locks his cane arm to hold himself steady.