Dog Gone, Back Soon Page 20

  I park next to a miniature version of the Andes plowed into the back of the lot (turns out the forecast was right—just a dusting) and watch as the new converts to the Church of Healthy Paws stream from their vehicles and march to the main entrance, eager to hear the gospel from the new testament of veterinary medicine. To be honest, I hope Winn Honey can deliver a decent sermon. Yes, I know this sounds strange for a man who still winces when he probes the swelling above his left eye, but the way she’s handled her daughter since the divorce seems more misguided than heartless. Born of hurt, it’s no better than me abandoning my late father. I can do penance, but I can never truly achieve forgiveness. Winn Honey has a chance, and I wish her well (which is not the same as wanting to get within range of her hands or feet). I did my bit solving Marmalade’s weight issues. Everything else—parenting techniques, abandonment issues, a quest for redemption—is way beyond my job description (and comfort zone). If I started a conversation, Charlie and her mom can finish it on their own.

  I didn’t know what to wear for this event, but I went with one of my father’s tweed jackets and matching wool ties. It feels a little forced, a little too gentleman farmer, but at least I look presentable.

  Once outside the truck I’m assaulted by a whipping wind that cuts and slices like a scalpel, drawing tears as I head for the door. The last thing I need is to look like I’ve been crying. Fortunately I don’t recognize anyone as I dab my lids with a handkerchief until the infamous Ethel Silverman rounds the corner with her husky, Kai, in tow. I flash to the poster for this event, the one outside the diner—“Dogs Allowed*.” I never did find out what that asterisk meant—behaves well with others, vocally restrained, unlikely to defecate indoors? Perhaps I should have brought the labradoodle. It’s obvious Stash hates being alone. His parting expression, indelible, caught in the split second before I shut the apartment door between us, was more than sadness, it was disbelief, unable to accept the fact that he’s out of a job, that I, the master he serves, don’t need him.

  I slow down, giving Ethel and Kai a chance to make their entrance, and then, heart pounding, on a deep breath worthy of a free diver, I step inside.

  The hall is just that, a grim, airplane hangar of a room with weak fluorescent lighting struggling to permeate the gloom of windowless, wood-paneled walls. It’s deceptively crowded because everyone has gathered at this end, so as soon as the door closes behind me I’m forced to bump, squeeze, and apologize as I try to move forward and get my bearings. The steady drone of conversation never wavers in the tight circles of talking heads, and I notice the occasional dog on a leash or cradled in an arm. It seems the congregation has been corralled to make room for neat rows of metal chairs in front of a podium and projector screen at the far end of the hall. No one seems keen to take a seat.

  Scanning left and right, striving for curious not furtive, I catch a glimpse of Doris’s yellow beehive, bemoan the fact that this is my best (only) social option, and then, to my relief, spot Peter Greer, the editor of the Eden Falls Gazette. At six-five, Greer is a skyscraper of a man, head and shoulders above the masses. I can’t see who he’s with, but since he’s a proven Bedside Manor ally, that’s where I’m headed.

  Then she comes at me as a neon pink blur, a girl in a gaudy scrub shirt sporting hair bleached to the point of whiteness and gelled into a stiff crown of daggers.

  “Canine, feline, or exotic?” She smiles (sincere but manic), and shakes three gift bags in my face.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You got a dog, a cat, or somethin’ fun like a sugar glider or a chinchilla?”

  I take in the Healthy Paws logo on her breast pocket and the plastic name tag above it—Popcorn—ah, their perky receptionist. If I were going to name a girl Popcorn, and I never will, this is precisely how I would hope she’d turn out. Her eyes are poached-egg-white wild, lips twitching with anticipation, effervescent to the point of bursting. She must have Red Bull for blood. Right about now, Doris is looking pretty good.

  “A dog,” I say, and with that moment of acknowledgment comes a surprising awareness, best described as delight. This brief warm-and-fuzzy sensation is quickly extinguished as a gift bag bearing the picture of a frolicking Lab puppy gets shoved in my direction. I peek inside and glimpse a bottle of flea shampoo, a Healthy Paws refrigerator magnet and bandana, and biodegradable poop bags in a bone-shaped dispenser.

  “Thanks,” I say with a polite smile, “but I’ll pick it up on the way out.” I have no intention of doing so.

  Popcorn offers me a “suit yourself” shrug and zips off, presumably for a double espresso refill.

  As Greer sees me coming, the crowd parts, and in the shadow of his eclipse I see he’s in conversation with none other than Lewis.

  “Ah, ready to do battle, Dr. Mills?”

  Greer reaches out and crushes my hand (I’m sure this is not meant to be intimidating), while Lewis takes control of my free shoulder with his usual death grip.

  “Bring it on,” whispers Lewis. “We can give as good as we get, and besides, we have home-field advantage.”

  I try to smile back, to be buoyed by Lewis’s confidence, but the muscles around my lips and eyes betray me, twisting into a silent plea for mercy.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, time to take a seat and let the fun begin.”

  I recognize the voice, the authoritative yet chummy tone, like he’s introducing a fairground attraction. Over on the far side of the room, I make out the man himself, Dorkin, and next to him, in a smart business suit, none other than the Jackie Chan of Patton, Dr. Winn Honey. Fortunately neither of them seems to have noticed my presence.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” says Greer. “Mr. Dorkin has asked me to join him down at the front. Seems he has a bone to pick with me over the ad we ran the other day. Don’t know what to tell him. Either my copy editor is an imbecile or a japesome wag.” He raises his eyebrows at me, but to Lewis he conspicuously double-pats the breast pocket of his overcoat before drifting away.

  “Do I want to know what that was about?” I ask.

  Lewis grins. Today’s bow tie is blue with a repeating pattern of playing cards and sharks. The symbolism is obvious—a card shark—a person who uses skill and deception to win. What has he done now?

  I get the full upper-arm-squeeze, pep-talk treatment. “Dorkin found me before you arrived. He’s going to give you a chance to say a few words, but I can tell he’d rather put you on the spot. If he tries to push your buttons in front of this audience, be yourself, be the doctor who has a passion for animals.”

  “Yes, but strictly speaking my passion is for the diagnosis, the thrill of solving a medical mystery. I mean, the pets are okay but, well, the owners, they just tend to get in the way of—”

  His fingers find the ulna nerve as it crosses my elbow, their squeeze triggering my “funny bone.” “Easy, Cyrus. Best leave the passion for pets and people to me, but Dorkin’s sure to pick on you because Bedside Manor is your business. Don’t waffle. Keep it brief. No one remembers a drawn-out, complicated response. Only brevity can deliver a knockout punch.”

  Why do I feel more scolded than inspired?

  “You really think Bedside Manor can go head-to-head with Healthy Paws? Handle this level of scrutiny?” I wonder, suddenly unsure.

  “Absolutely,” says Lewis, but I pick up on the subtle quaver hidden in his vowels.

  I’m reminded of The English Patient, the sandstorm scene where Kristin Scott Thomas asks Ralph Fiennes if he thinks they will be all right.

  Yes. Yes. Absolutely.

  Yes is a comfort. Absolutely is not.

  “I’ll be up front, with Greer,” says Lewis. “You and I sitting together, not right, looks weak.”

  I could argue that together we demonstrate solidarity, but he’s gone before I get the chance. I’m guessing there must be a hundred and fifty people in attendance, a good showing for a Saturday afternoon, with most folks drawn to the front. I notice a guy in a camo jacket on the aisle se
at of the last row, a German short-haired pointer on one side, and at least four goody bags stockpiled on the other. Something tells me he won’t be staying for long. I come around, slink into an empty back row via the side, and settle into a seat, nice and low. With plenty of space up front I’m a little surprised when someone plops down next to me.

  “Hell-o,” says Amy, bumping my elbow, acting all—dare I say—chipper to see me.

  Involuntarily, I develop an acute case of tetanus, the muscles of my body stiffening, my spine turning rigid. I grunt a reciprocal hello.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  My mind jams with our last conversation, Amy shutting me down for being, oh, I don’t know, a little curious about a man who turned out to be her husband.

  “Nervous for your girlfriend’s speech? You think she’ll get annoyed if I sit here?”

  Though she makes the question sound serious enough, mischief sparkles in her blue and brown eyes.

  “What happened to the side of your head?” She prods an index finger into my temple before I can speak, causing me to flinch and suck saliva between clenched teeth.

  “I slipped in the shower.”

  She stifles a laugh. “That’s the best you’ve got? ’Cause I’m leaning toward lover’s spat.”

  “We are not lovers,” I snap, loud, insistent, and, unfortunately, the only voice in a room that suddenly went quiet. Everyone turns in our direction, Amy managing to join the masses with an overplayed look of surprise. From the podium, Dorkin picks me out, and, keeping his eyes on me, says something to Honey, who’s standing by his side.

  “Someone’s in trouble,” Amy says, barely moving her lips.

  “She’s not my… girlfriend,” I whisper, facing forward, my cheeks still radiating atomic heat.

  “Hmm, you might be right. Her death glare is clearly aimed at you, not me. I’m sensing animosity, not jealousy.”

  I turn and take in Amy’s profile as she fakes anticipation, like a kid eager for the show to start. Such long eyelashes. Why is she here and acting all… frisky?

  Time to shut her down.

  “Shouldn’t you be brushing up on your Italian?” I ask.

  She jerks back to face me, aghast.

  “What do you know, Cyrus?”

  “Nothing much. A name. A country of origin.”

  “Best keep it that way,” she says, adding, “non essere un cretino,” in a perfect Italian accent.

  Dorkin interrupts before I can get any more information out of Amy. “Wow, what a fantastic turnout. Obviously the pet lovers of Eden Falls know the value of veterinary care, and at Healthy Paws, our veterinary care is remarkable. State of the art, open twenty-four/seven—fantastic value.”

  “If he keeps this up I’m going to puke,” says Amy behind a cupped hand.

  “But I’ll get my turn later. Right now, it’s my great pleasure to introduce Dr. Winn Honey, one of four veterinarians working at our conveniently located Patton office. Dr. Honey graduated from the University of…”

  Honey bows her head, hands clasped together in front as Dorkin proudly rattles off her credits and achievements.

  “… and, last but not least, compared to Doc Lewis and Doc Mills, she’s a whole lot easier on the eyes, am I right, gentlemen?”

  If the gentlemen of the room agree, they keep it to themselves, and though Honey smiles, like no doubt she’s had to so many times before, the sexist shot garners an indignant murmur, not a receptive laugh. She must have spurned Dorkin’s advances in the past. That’s why he’s got it out for her.

  There’s a round of applause as Honey takes the podium and Dorkin settles into his seat on the front row, Lewis on his left, Greer on his right. The overhead lights dim, and up pops the first slide of a PowerPoint presentation: Practical First Aid for Your Pets.

  “Thanks, Guy, for that… generous… introduction. And for all the women in the room, be grateful you didn’t have to work with him before he completed his sexual harassment training.”

  “Whoa, snap,” says Amy, over pockets of applause. “I can see why you like this girl.”

  But I’m not clapping; I’m staring at Dorkin. Lewis and Greer might have to hold him down. Why would Honey go straight off script and defy her boss?

  “So, what follows is meant to be practical and easy to remember. Don’t worry, there’s no quiz at the end. Here are some of the most common emergencies you might face.”

  The audience oohs and ahhs over the picture of a forlorn basset hound puppy with a fiberglass cast on his front leg adjacent to a bulleted list that includes: fractures, open wounds, choking, heatstroke (not much chance in these parts), insect bites and stings, household poisons, and seizures.

  Three more slides in, and it’s clear that Dr. Honey is a gifted and effective orator. Nice pace, informative but entertaining slides, lots of direct eye contact. She’s everything I am not in a public speaker. The audience is receptive, and I can see Dorkin relax and settle back into his seat as though he might be able to forgive her earlier indiscretion.

  Twenty minutes later, my eyes slide over to Amy and she reciprocates, smiles, and goes back to the talk. But I keep staring. She seems so at ease, the… wife… who capsized my world. What a fool I’ve been to think that this funny, edgy, beautiful woman would be interested in me. Her choice of a man—no, husband—with his vanities, should tell me all I need to know. If this is her taste, she was always going to spit me out.

  “What?” asks Amy, eyes forward, locked on the next slide.

  “I, um, wanted you to know I didn’t mean to find out about Marco Tellucci,” I mumble. “It was an accident. George from the inn was reviewing some security video and—”

  Amy raises a hand to silence me, leans in, her lips brushing my ear. “Cyrus, you can be the smartest person in the world—and the dumbest. You of all people should know everyone has baggage.”

  She takes my hand, gives it a squeeze, and leans back in her seat.

  I’m speechless. Do all women speak this cryptic language that men like me cannot understand no matter how much they wish to learn? I’ve been wallowing in self-pity about having been one-upped by the Italian. I’ve seen the marriage certificate. It’s fair to say a marriage is a little bit more than “baggage.” What am I missing here?

  Ten minutes later, as Honey gets to her conclusions slide, she has her first moment of hesitation, fumbling through her notes as though she’s lost her place. It takes me a moment before I realize what’s happened. Charlie Brown tiptoes down the row to take the empty seat on the other side of me.

  “Hey, Doc, thought I’d come for the fireworks. Offer some moral support.”

  I introduce Charlize to “my friend” Amy and make a point of clarifying that Charlie is Dr. Honey’s daughter.

  “That’s quite a shiner,” Charlie whispers.

  “I’ll live,” I say. “How are things between you and your mom?”

  Charlie frowns, rolls her hand from side to side. “Better. She made me come home, and we talked till two in the morning.”

  “You should know the evidence for the cause of Marmalade’s obesity was entirely circumstantial and… well… postulating why it happened was… just a guess and… very unprofessional. I’m sorry if I—”

  “I’m glad. It was time she knew. I wanted her to solve the problem; I wanted her to see what was staring her in the face. It’s too bad you and mom didn’t hook up.”

  I can tell Amy’s listening.

  “I should never have gone along with your dating scam. I only did it to get the inside scoop on Healthy Paws. That’s all.” And then, to test my theory, I add, “Besides, your mom’s too attractive for me. I prefer a woman who’s more plain, even homely.”

  The pain in my left shin tells me I was right.

  “But guess who’s going to Miami next weekend?”

  I turn full on to Charlie. She’s genuinely excited, and more than I might expect for a girl hoping to get a tan or sneak an alcoholic drink poolside. I reckon s
he’s thrilled to be getting a chance to bond. Good for her. I wish I’d been smart enough to take the same chance when my father was still alive.

  Dr. Honey puts down her laser pointer and says, “So… yes, I think, yes, that’s the final slide.”

  Dorkin steps forward, clapping his hands as he heads to the podium, encouraging the audience to join him in a show of appreciation.

  “If we could have the lights up, Dr. Honey will be happy to take questions, and I encourage our colleagues from Bedside Manor to join in the discussion.” And then as a calculated afterthought, “Assuming they wish to do so.”

  Dorkin directs his most insincere gap-toothed smile at Lewis and then me.

  Almost immediately, Ethel Silverman is up on her feet.

  “Thank you, Doc, for all… that… but what I want to know is why you and your fancy hospital are trawling for business considering Eden Falls already has a perfectly good veterinary practice.”

  I don’t know whether to hug Ethel or scream at her. Talk about cutting to the chase.

  “Well,” says Dorkin, lighting up, “perhaps Dr. Honey would be kind enough to start us off.”

  It’s as though Dorkin just downed Popcorn’s stash of speed, virtually salivating at this gift. It’s the perfect opportunity for Honey to deliver a coup de grâce, to make her audience bask in the tender caress of Healthy Paws while spurning Bedside Manor as they would spurn a rabid dog.

  Winn Honey takes her time, looking not at Dorkin or Ethel, but out, to the back, to Charlie and me.

  “Great question, and one that could only come from a client who’s incredibly loyal to Bedside Manor. See, we can try to compete, bully it, or buy it, but that kind of loyalty is about connections, personalities, a gut feeling between people and between people and animals. Healthy Paws has the toys, the fancy bells and whistles, we can run every test and provide every treatment option, but at the end of the day, what matters is how your practice makes you feel. Do they listen? Do they care?”