Dog Gone, Back Soon Page 3

  “I’d like to try sticking a needle into the lump, aspirate some cells, and take a look at it myself.”

  “What makes you so sure you’d do any better? And more importantly, how much will all this cost?”

  Lewis warned me about the folks around these parts, suggesting they respond best to a no-nonsense honest approach that I, with my southern sensibilities, find perilously close to rudeness.

  “Well, I’m pretty good with a microscope.” She eases back in her stance, head canting to one side as her lower jaw slides forward to show me the entire lower arcade of her incisors. Did she learn this trick from Sox? I can’t tell whether she finds me defiant or arrogant. Tactic number two—when all else fails, appeal to the pocketbook. “Tell you what, if I don’t get a diagnosis, I won’t charge for trying.”

  Even with that generous offer Ms. Sauer still deliberates, but she eventually consents. A few minutes later, armed with a glass slide smeared with cellular debris from Sox’s lump, I head on back into the work area to find Lewis, coffee mug in hand, leaning into the counter with a copy of the day’s Eden Falls Gazette.

  “Morning, Cyrus. Good to see your mastiff looks better.” Lewis raises his cup in the direction of Tallulah, who stands at the front of her run, tail wagging, eager for attention or perhaps a jumbo-sized bag of Cheetos. “What you got there?”

  Lewis notices me dipping my slide into a series of small glass vats containing blue and crimson stains and waving it in the air like a Fourth of July sparkler. I need it to dry before I slip it under the microscope lens and unmask its secret.

  “A second opinion,” I say, taking a seat in front of the scope. “Disgruntled client from our mortal enemies at Healthy Paws. What d’you make of that clairvoyant computer program they’ve got over there?”

  Lewis turns the page and takes a sip. “Ridiculous. You can’t apply a set formula to fit every pet ailment.” He meets my eye and winks. “Besides, takes all the fun out of it, right?”

  “Maybe, but it probably makes good business sense,” I say. “Maximal billing disguised as good medicine.”

  Lewis puts his mug down, closes the paper, and comes over to where I’m sitting. Again, he squeezes my shoulder with his best Vulcan death grip. I’m beginning to appreciate how the pain is proportional to the gravity of what he’s about to impart. “The day I run a test or offer a pill simply to make money is the day I hang up my stethoscope. Let’s you and I focus on good medicine, and the bills will get paid.”

  He’s right. And then it hits me. “That’s it. That’s what we’ll do. What you and my father have always done. We’ll set ourselves apart by promoting our old-fashioned approach to veterinary medicine.”

  Lewis’s fuzzy-gray-caterpillar eyebrows knit together as one. “Not sure we want to highlight the old-fashioned. Sounds antiquated, out of date, ready for the boneyard.”

  “No, no. I’m talking about our style: the way we practice and the services we offer. Think classic, vintage, and timeless. Think friendly, warm, and homey.”

  Lewis looks even more skeptical.

  “Did you just say homey?”

  “Okay, well at least you’re friendly. But bottom line, it’s personalized, not computerized.”

  Lewis concedes a nod. “Hey, maybe you should see if Tallulah’s owner, Panama Red, can hack into their program and shut it down. Then we’ll see whether the Healthy Paws vets can actually think for themselves.”

  I assume he’s joking. At least I hope he is.

  “Anyway, best get going. If you’re free later this morning, I’d appreciate your opinion on one of my house calls.”

  “Of course,” I say, slipping the prepared slide under the clips on the stage of the microscope, letting my fingers twitch and flutter with the focus adjustment knobs, cozying my cornea up to the eyepiece.

  “Excellent,” I hear over my shoulder. “Ask Doris for the directions.” My reply is no more than a perfunctory grunt. I’m distracted by what Sox’s sample is telling me, written in a familiar language of foamy cytoplasm and juicy round nuclei. My aspirate is good, plenty of decent cells—what I don’t see is just as important as what I do.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Sauer, but I have good news.” I’m smiling as I return to the exam room, energized, relishing this opportunity to one-up Healthy Paws. “It turns out this little lump is indeed a true surgical emergency.”

  “Oh my God. What are you saying? Now Sox needs emergency surgery?”

  Ms. Sauer drops to her knees, her permanent scowl resembling a downturned bass mouth, draping her arms around her boxer’s neck as Sox sets to work, licking up her tears. My attempt at clinical levity has clearly backfired.

  “No, no, no,” I stammer. “Sox is going to be fine. The lump is what’s called a cutaneous histiocytoma. It’s totally benign. Most of them spontaneously regress.” I can see I’ve lost her again. “Most of them disappear in a month or two on their own. See? It’s an old veterinary joke.”

  Sniffling, wiping more drool off her eyes than tears, she says, “What is?”

  “The need for emergency surgery. If Sox doesn’t get surgery soon, it will be too late. You’ll have missed the chance to make money because the lump will have disappeared.”

  I flash my brows, trying to convey “Get it?” but her thin lips compress into a pale and indignant grimace.

  “That’s not funny. You’re telling me Healthy Paws wanted to make my Sox have risky anesthesia and put him through a pointless surgery on a lump that’ll go away on its own?”

  “Well, I’m sure that wasn’t their intent when—”

  “I knew it. I knew that bitch doctor was trying to rip me off.” I guess Ms. Sauer is angry enough to actually use the b-word.

  “Please, Ms. Sauer,” I say, hamming up the ecclesiastical open palms spread wide before me. “Let’s just be glad I could make the diagnosis.” But then, unable to resist, I add in my most syrupy voice, “At least you know Sox will be well taken care of at Bedside Manor.”

  I’m pretty sure she sees that my fake smile is more about gloating than sincerity.

  Ms. Sauer sniffs deeply, gets to her feet, and deliberates before picking up Sox’s leash.

  “I’m grateful,” she says, somewhat tersely. “And yes, I’ll be transferring Sox’s care to you. But that lot over at Healthy Paws haven’t heard the last from me.”

  Though this threat of negative publicity for our rivals might prove useful, it doesn’t sit well with me.

  “Ms. Sauer, can I be frank? I’m not sure going to the State Veterinary Board or the Eden Falls Gazette is the best way to deal with this.”

  Sox shakes his head, saliva strands cartwheeling end over end, flecking the front of my shirt. Ms. Sauer looks appalled.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I wasn’t thinking of either of those.”

  I reach forward to shake her hand. “That’s great. I’m relieved.”

  She holds my grip, and I watch as the devil dances in her eyes.

  “I’ll simply be chatting to Doris on the way out.”

  Her smug grin coincides with the paralysis affecting my lower jaw as it becomes my turn to impersonate a heavily jowled and drooling boxer.

  Everybody knows everyone in this town. And no one more so than Doris. The tale of what I imagine will soon be Sox’s near brush with death is about to go viral.

  3

  WHEN I RETURN TO THE WAITING ROOM, THE man jumping out of his seat and charging my way is not the man I expected. This man is stocky and mustachioed, hand outstretched and ready for a shake, all business. I try to look past him to see what became of the sickly man and his devoted standard poodle. I wonder why they decided to leave.

  “Cyrus. Pleasure to finally meet you. Guy Dorkin. I was in the neighborhood and thought what the heck, take a chance on introducing myself even though I don’t have an appointment.” Dorkin makes a show of turning left and then right as though he’s sizing up the empty room. “Looks like I didn’t need one.”

  And tha
t’s when he lets loose with a feral, distinctive laugh that I instantly recognize. It’s that skin-crawling mix of wheezy donkey bray on the inhalation and hyena cackle on the exhalation. It’s the one I heard at the bar last night. The man refusing to let go of my grip is none other than the office manager of Healthy Paws.

  I make three quick observations about his greeting. He’s trying to crush me, he’s trying to pull me toward him, and he’s twisting his wrist so his hand lies on top. What’s that all about? Managing to break free, I sense an unpleasant stickiness lingering in my palm. Hopefully it’s only a remnant of the stiff gel he’s using to enforce the Tintin cowlick at the prow of his hairline.

  “Pretty ballsy play you made the other day.” Dorkin’s got to be my age—late thirties, early forties—his black cashmere coat over a pin-striped suit and matching silk tie a little too dapper, a little too sharp for these parts. And the mustache has to be an experiment that went wrong. Perhaps it started out as a full beard, morphed into a goatee, and got downsized to its present state. Not quite seventies porn star specifications, it still draws the onlooker to Dorkin’s meaty lips and the sizeable gap between his two front teeth.

  “Not sure I’m with you, Mr. Dorkin.”

  “Guy. Guy. Lighten up, fella.” There’s a mischievous slap to my upper arm. “The free clinic you ran last week. I totally get it. Speculate to accumulate. Either folks flock to you in droves or they take advantage and you never see hide nor hair of them again.” He throws up his hands, the laugh replaced by a sympathetic consolatory headshake. “Guess you got your answer.”

  “We’re doing okay… Guy,” I say, accentuating his name while jutting my chin toward the front desk. “Busy enough. In fact, one of your new clients is just leaving,” I say, nodding toward the reception desk.

  Ms. Sauer, caught in a conspiratorial huddle with Doris, glances our way, the sibilant hiss of their whispers falling silent. I watch with satisfaction as Dorkin’s expression begins with indifference, passes through a moment of confusion, explodes with a flash of recognition (not sure if it’s the dog or the owner), and finishes with a mask of supreme concern. It takes him a few seconds to shake it off.

  “Look,” he says, still striving to be Mr. Congeniality, “I dropped by ’cause I got a phone call from Critchley at Green State Bank. He says you’re definitely no longer interested in selling.”

  Dorkin’s grimace insists Mr. Critchley must have made a mistake.

  “That’s correct. Bedside Manor is no longer on the market.”

  Dorkin shifts his weight and acts surprised. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  His theatrical moment of hesitation is broken by another signature burst of laughter, followed by a playful punch to my upper arm.

  “Good for you, Cy. Good for you.”

  Cy. No one has ever referred to me as Cy. In a matter of minutes Dorkin’s gone from total stranger to baptizing me with a new nickname. And what’s with all this physical contact? Is the frat boy yearning for the good old days at Tau Kappa Epsilon?

  “No, that’s great. But—full disclosure—your timing could have been better. Okay, your timing sucks. I mean, I wish you the best, but it’s a tough market, you know?”

  In my head I can hear Lewis telling me, They want to wipe us out. They want to bring Bedside Manor to its knees. I can’t help myself.

  “So why was Healthy Paws interested in buying this place then?”

  Dorkin makes a gun out of his cocked thumb and pointy index finger, aims it my way, and clicks his tongue. “Good question. But to answer it, you should know who you’re dealing with.”

  I almost say, “A total douche bag?” but keep quiet.

  “Last quarter, my practice kicked serious ass.”

  The “my” is not lost on me.

  “Number one Healthy Paws in New England when you figure in per capita head of population.”

  I’m not much of an actor, but my attempt at awe may have come across as disbelief.

  “Cause for celebration, I imagine.”

  “You betcha,” says Dorkin. “Me and the vets went out the other night. Had a blast.”

  I nod, flashing back to the scene at the bar, wishing I could hit the rewind button and start over with Amy. Given the amount of background noise fueled by drunken revelry, I wonder which veterinarian forgot to put his pager on vibrate and missed the emergency call for Tallulah, the stoned mastiff.

  “Anyhoo, my point is I crunched the numbers, so you know they’re solid, and yeah, so long as I used one of our existing doctors from Patton, not a new hire, this place could serve as a satellite.”

  “Satellite?”

  “Yep, deal with the minor stuff here, but essentially feed the decent cases back to the mother ship, where we can do things right.”

  Dorkin leans in close enough for me to fully appreciate his coffee breath. “You see, Cyrus”—his voice has dropped to a deferential whisper—“I calculated this place to be unsustainable as a full-time facility. Why? Easy. Eden Falls doesn’t have the population to draw on, and what you do have is never going to fork over the big bucks.”

  Dorkin flashes his brows as if he has provided proof positive, waits a beat, and then hits me with: “Hey, you and I should go out sometime, grab a beer.”

  If he punches me again, I might actually have to punch him back. Only I’ll be aiming for his face.

  “Yeah, you can be my wingman.” Dorkin begins to sway at his hips, his hands open-palmed and stretched out before him as though he’s beating out a rhythm on imaginary bongos. “You’ve got that brooding thing going on—good-looking and, best of all, that southern accent. Let me guess—Charleston?”

  Clearly Dorkin’s done his homework because Charleston is no guess. But good-looking? I’ve been told I have my father’s kind blue eyes but I have nothing “going on” around the opposite sex. Just ask Amy.

  And wingman? I feel the need… the need for speed. I swear I will never be Goose to his Maverick.

  “Yes, Charleston. But you’re telling me Patton, a town five times the size of Eden Falls, can support four full-time veterinarians, whereas Eden Falls can’t support even one?”

  Dorkin forces a sigh, as though he can’t believe I still don’t get it. “See, we’re coming out of a recession, people have to cut back, cut corners, and, for the first time, pets are paying the price. Look, I was invited to spearhead a national advisory committee on the future of veterinary practice for Healthy Paws, so this heads-up is current, accurate, and free of charge. Two words: buckle up. If the likes of corporate practices are bracing for a bumpy ride, mom-and-pop places like this are going to get tossed aside and left for roadkill.”

  There’s the chime of the front doorbell. Ms. Sauer and Sox are finally heading out, Doris shouting after them, “I’ll give you a call when it’s time for his vaccines.” Funny how Doris has cranked up her volume control to eleven, broadcasting Sox’s imminent return to Bedside Manor for his future care.

  By now I’ve had more than I can stomach of Mr. Guy Dorkin, and if I were sensible I’d excuse myself, politely thank him for stopping by, and avoid the risk of further confrontation. The trouble is he said precisely the wrong words—mom and pop. I bore witness to the sweat and tears my late mother and father invested in this place. Their presence fills every paint-peeling, water-stained corner of every room, and, for right now, I still need them by my side.

  “You know, Guy, part of me suspects Healthy Paws is worried about the competition. Maybe you’ve got this the wrong way round. Maybe Bedside Manor is going to start drawing on some of that wealthy clientele in Patton.”

  I brace for a derisive laugh but it never comes. “Which bit of four—that’s right, four—full-time veterinarians are you forgetting about, Cy?”

  Though his expression remains wooden, the switch up from comical banter to sarcasm tells me I’ve struck a nerve.

  “Four means we can provide care twenty-four/seven. Four”—he flutters the fingers of his r
ight hand—“means you can get an appointment on a Sunday. And, FYI, Healthy Paws is a publicly traded company, I’m talking, ‘Hello, Mr. NASDAQ.’ We operate state-of-the-art facilities in thirty-six states. We buy in bulk, direct from all the major drug companies and pet food distributors, so the prices we offer to our customers cannot be beat. Do you know what drives profits in veterinary healthcare? Food and drugs. Everything else is gravy, and let me tell you, pet owners lap up our gravy.”

  If he’s waiting for me to counter with something unique to Bedside Manor, I’m not sure what I’m going to say. Our fax machine works? Just bought a new batch of hazardous chemicals for our archaic X-ray machine?

  He concludes his monologue with, “You should drop by sometime. Love to show you around.”

  Though I’d rather take a cheese-grater to my eyeballs, I force a smile and say, “Sure. And I appreciate your… insight, but I think I’ll stick it out, give this place a shot.”

  Dorkin purses his lips and shakes his head, pained by my great mistake.

  “I gave your father a chance to sell up, but he blew it, determined to stay the course, plying his outdated techniques even as they were going extinct. Remind me, how did that work out for him?”

  He spreads his arms widely, as if to a congregation.

  “What kind of a legacy did he leave for you to salvage?”

  I look away, grind molar on molar, meet his eyes, and say, “The kind that matters. The kind that comes without a price tag.”

  I can’t tell whether it’s what I’ve said or his reading my sincerity, but I’m treated to the hyena-donkey hybrid laugh.

  “I’m sorry, Cy. I respected your father, but times have changed. We live in a world of doggy day care, canine fashion accessories, Halloween costumes for pets, pet psychics, pet sitters, the list goes on and on. Veterinary medicine must evolve. The public demands it. If Fido’s getting a pacemaker, then Fido’s mom knows she can’t just trade for a cup of tea and a slice of cake.”