Dog Gone, Back Soon Read online

  “All set?” she asks, even as she grabs my plate.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Just the check?”

  “Please,” I reply. As she turns away I blurt out, “How are Clint and Harry doing?”

  Despite the name, Clint is the female, funny-looking Lab mix her grandfather Harry calls his best friend. Last week Clint had a bad run-in with a wayward pork chop.

  “They’re great,” she says, considering me, and it’s like I’m watching a security gate slide back, getting my first unimpeded look at the person on the other side. “Kind of you to ask.”

  “Not at all,” I say. “Give them my best.”

  She waits a beat. “Fixing Clint, you were cool under pressure,” she says. “Now I’ve seen what you’re capable of.”

  I do this nervous porcine snort thing that is definitely not cool. “I’m not sure that’s true.”

  “No? Well, you’ve proven you can handle at least one tricky bitch.”

  She smiles. I hope she’s referring to Clint.

  Once again she makes to leave.

  “Wait. Did you get a chance to listen to your voice mail?”

  Amy comes back to the table looking confused.

  “Um… see… I left you a message. Look… I know the other day, well, it didn’t go as planned.”

  Nonchalantly she fingers the top empty buttonhole of her shirt. “Oh, so you thought you’d get to sleep with me on the first date?”

  “No,” I shout, causing a few heads to turn before regaining my composure. “Never.”

  “Never as in it never crossed your mind because I’m not your type?”

  “No, I mean, yes, it’s crossed my… I mean, no, I’m not that kind of man.”

  The smile wriggling into the corners of her mouth takes its time, enough for me to achieve maximal blood flow to my cheeks.

  “And what kind of man is that exactly?”

  Her standing over me, forcing me to angle my head upward, only exaggerates my discomfort. To my surprise she reads it, deciding to squat down so we’re face-to-face.

  “Hey, I’m sorry if I came across as…”

  “Rude,” I offer.

  Amy puckers her lips. “I’ll give you abrupt, maybe even snippy. But believe me, my behavior was for your own good.”

  I manage a slow nod, forcing the next question out of my mouth to change from “What’s that supposed to mean?” to “Can we have a do-over?”

  In her dispassionate deliberation, the room falls silent, joining me in a moment of breathless anticipation. Though there may be some truth to the notion that attractive women can go overlooked because they appear unapproachable, even unattainable, I wager Amy’s single status is based on a frank, brutal honesty that is as unsettling as it is beguiling.

  “Sure, why not?”

  Is it me or does the background noise return to its former volume?

  “Just as long as the green-eyed monster doesn’t rear its ugly head.”

  “Green-eyed monster?” I ask.

  “ ‘O, beware, my lord… the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on.’ ”

  Did I mention Amy was an English major?

  “Shakespeare,” she says. “Othello. Referring to jealousy.”

  “I wasn’t…” I catch myself in the nick of time and push down the urge to act defensive. It was being the voyeur, having to witness her irresistible smile and laugh, the ease with which this mysterious man on the other end of a phone captivated her in a way I doubt I ever could.

  “Of course,” I say. “Fresh start. Clean slate. Don’t suppose you’re free this evening?”

  She winces, inhales between clenched teeth. “Afraid not, got plans.”

  And I can tell she’s watching me, like this is a test, her unavailability bait, to see if the monster lurking inside me will bite.

  “No problem,” I manage, though I’m not sure she’s convinced. “Another time.”

  “That would be nice,” she says, softening. “I’ll have my people call your people. And soon, okay?”

  I KNEW IT. I knew I wasn’t being paranoid. Parked on the other side of the street from the diner is a dishwater gray minivan. It has to be the one that tailed me to Garvey’s. There’s a figure reclining in the driver’s seat, lying low, gangsta-style, behind the steering wheel, but I can’t see his partner. Peeved, I succumb to a rare moment of spontaneity, schlepping across the mushy brown snow to confront them, squinting through the condensation on the inside of the window, only to be greeted by white teeth and an explosion of booming barks.

  “Easy, Stash,” commands a voice, winding down his window, bringing one hand up to his windpipe in the manner of a fake karate chop. The barking instantly stops, and that’s when I recognize the gaunt, sickly guy I saw earlier this morning in the waiting room. Riding shotgun, sitting square and to attention, is his black standard poodle.

  “Hey, Doc,” says the man, looking pleased to see me. “I’ve been hoping to catch you. Wondering if I can have a word. In private.”

  “What’s this about?” I ask.

  The man hesitates, checks in with his partner, Stash (strange name), before coming back to me, giving new meaning to the phrase deadpan expression.

  “I have a favor to ask. A big favor. Something only you could appreciate.”

  If the request is meant to sound ominous, it does.

  “You’d better explain,” I say.

  A car barrels past, spraying a frosty slurry down the back of my pants as a couple of satisfied customers exit the diner and head our way.

  “Sure. Somewhere quiet?”

  I’d offer to come around and sit in the passenger seat, but the dog doesn’t look like he’s prepared to move.

  “I’m headed back to the practice. I can meet you there.”

  Before the man can reply, my cell phone rings.

  “Where are you?”

  No introduction. No pleasantries. Straight to it.

  “Good afternoon, Doris. I just finished up lunch at the diner.”

  I drift around to the front of the van to avoid another oncoming car.

  “Any chance you could…”

  The request gets lost in a burst of static.

  “Hang on.” I walk up the street as though I can somehow divine better reception. “Can you hear me now?”

  More disjointed, garbled consonants. I jog over to the diner side of the street.

  “Any better?”

  “I said can you pick me up a packet of Marlboros from the gas station across the way? And then you’re needed on a house call.”

  “Doris, I’m not comfortable enabling your drug habit.”

  “Suit yourself, but I’ll have to leave the practice unattended to get them.”

  She always knows just what to say. “Okay, fine, what’s the address?”

  She rattles off a street name I don’t recognize.

  “It’s off Route 62, closer to Patton than Eden Falls.”

  “Patton?”

  “Maybe you’re starting to get a reputation.”

  I’m speechless. Did Doris just give me a compliment?

  “Or maybe they just don’t know any better.”

  She hangs up before I can reply.

  I look back across the street for the gray minivan.

  It’s gone.

  THE HOME of one Marmalade Succabone (yes, I asked Doris to repeat the pet’s name) is a conspicuously lonely colonial surrounded by empty lots, abandoned half-finished wood construction, and what appears to be a green plastic Porta Potty lying on its side. Though the turn into their street boasts the professional masonry of a new stone wall, and rows of arborvitae welcome the visitor to desirable Deerfield Meadows, clearly the developer went belly-up after completing one property, leaving no sign of getting the rest of the project finished any time soon.

  In the driveway sits a brand-new pink Jeep, a life-sized version of something Barbie might drive. I walk past thinking someone’s awfully confident of herself. />
  “Dr. Mills?”

  A girl stands at the front door, sixteen, maybe seventeen years old, wearing a flimsy leopard-patterned shirt over skintight black pants the likes of which I haven’t seen since Olivia Newton-John in the final scenes of Grease. The trouble is, that’s where the similarity to Ms. Newton-John ends. I don’t know how to put this, and please, I’m simply being objective, not judgmental, but she’s about five-two and I’m guessing two hundred pounds.

  “That’s me.”

  “Thought so,” she says. “Come in,” offering her hand to shake, an act that strikes me as a little odd for her generation and, at the same time, completely wonderful. She has a pretty face and there’s nothing but warmth in her smile.

  “I’m Charlie, Charlie Brown.”

  I must look confused.

  “Short for Charlize,” she adds, for explanation.

  “Ah.”

  We stand in a foyer, with a formal dining room to my left and what looks like a family room to my right. The place is neat but cavernous and way too empty, as though it needs a lot more furniture.

  “Your parents not home?” I ask.

  “No,” says Charlie, “it’s just me and my mom, and she’s at work.”

  I make a show of checking the time on my wristwatch.

  “School’s out early today?”

  She purses her lips as though contemplating which excuse to use. “Gym. Last class. I skipped.”

  “In the pink Jeep.”

  “You like?”

  “It’s very… eye-catching,” I say.

  “Thanks,” she gushes as though I’ve paid the finest of compliments. “Hey, come on through, and I’ll show you Marmalade. Can I get you a drink? Coffee, tea, something stronger?”

  Something stronger? I catch the way she’s watching for my response. The kid’s trying to get a rise out of me.

  “I’m fine,” I say, following her into an open kitchen, noticing a couple of framed photographs on the walls. They’re of a woman, a stunningly attractive woman. And please, before you start to think I wear rose-colored glasses around the opposite sex or that northern Vermont is an oasis of beautiful people, let me differentiate between Amy and this particular female. Amy’s beauty is a package deal. This is airbrushed into a professional glamour shot.

  “That’s my mom. Trying to look hot after the divorce.”

  “Really? Why? Not that she doesn’t look hot… sorry, I shouldn’t have said—”

  “It’s cool. Her therapist says it’s a normal part of her recovery. They’re both better off. It just sucks that Mom’s either working or embarrassing herself meeting total losers online and Dad went off to live in Wisconsin. Married a bimbo and started a new family. Twins. They’re actually really cute. There she is.”

  What looks like a furry orange medicine ball lumbers past only to be swept up into Charlie’s arms (with some difficulty, I might add).

  “Dr. Mills, meet Marmalade Succabone.”

  I reach out to pet an overinflated blimp of a feline.

  “Wow, she’s…”

  “What?”

  I struggle to find the words to capture Marmalade’s dimensions.

  “Voluptuous.”

  Charlie beams. “I like that,” she says. “Voluptuous.” She runs a hand over the creature’s girth and the cat approves with a Geiger counter purr.

  “What seems to be the problem?” Aside from her morbid obesity and the real possibility of challenging the Guinness World Record for fattest living feline, which happens to be 48.6 pounds.

  “You’re kidding,” says Charlie Brown, having to readjust the position of the mammoth in her tiring arms. “Look at her. She’s totally overweight. And no one knows why.”

  I could have breezed by this last comment, but my mind jumps all over it.

  “You’ve already sought veterinary advice?”

  For the first time I catch Charlie’s confidence begin to slip, just like her grip on the uber-cherubic cat spilling onto the floor with a seismic thud.

  “Yeah, well, we went to the local vet, but they’re, like, useless.”

  “You mean Healthy Paws?” I say, and I realize that I’m at risk of breaking into a smile.

  “Yeah, they haven’t been able to help at all. You know they have hidden cameras in every exam room.”

  I’m surprised by this unexpected tidbit. We don’t even have an alarm on the door at Bedside Manor, and they have cameras in every room?

  “I’m not kidding, my friend Gabe came with me one time. You’ve met him.”

  Gabe. Mr. Pot Brownie.

  “Yeah, he told me he met this vet last night who didn’t snitch on him to his mom. And that you were cool and maybe could fix Marmalade?”

  So Gabe’s the reason I got this house call. It makes sense. High school “freaks and geeks,” the ostracized, pretty, but overweight girl is best friends with the nerdy computer whiz with an affinity for marijuana.

  “Gabe’s into spy stuff. He spotted the camera in the ceiling.”

  Sounds like Napoleon Dynamite has been watching one conspiracy movie too many.

  “Not sure what to tell you, but let’s have a look at Miss Marmalade.”

  I don’t have far to go to find the cat that ate Vermont.

  “Is this a pantry?”

  “Yeah. That’s where we keep her food.”

  Marmalade sits in front of the door, grooming a paw, though I sense she would rather be chowing down on a juicy T-bone or a baby wildebeest.

  I kneel on the hardwood floor beside her, sweep my tie over my shoulder (Marmalade seems to think it’s a toy), and pull out my stethoscope to listen to her chest. Everything seems in order. Though I might best describe palpating her abdomen as like kneading dough, again, no abnormalities jump out at me.

  “Anything?”

  “Not really. Can I assume she’s had her blood tested?”

  Charlie reaches across a counter and picks up a file. She shakes it in my direction.

  “Yeah, blood, pee, you name it, she’s had it tested. I like this cat, but Mom? Mom adores this cat. She worships her. This cat can do no wrong.”

  I take a look, see the familiar Healthy Paws logo on everything, and once again note the doctor on the case, the “useless” doctor on the case, to be none other than Dr. Honey. Still, the data is not pointing to an obvious cause for the cat’s weight issue.

  “What’s she fed?”

  “Regular cat food. It’s even diet. Take a look for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

  “Of course I believe you,” I say, noting her defensive tone.

  We face one another, the orange colossus in my peripheral vision happy to bide her time at the pantry door.

  “Why haven’t you asked the obvious question?”

  “Which one?” I ask, totally confused.

  “Her name. Marmalade Succabone. Don’t you think it’s strange?”

  “A little. But I’ve learned not to second-guess the names people give to their pets.”

  “Really? Not curious?”

  It’s pretty obvious she wants me to indulge her.

  “Sure. Why Marmalade Succabone?”

  She lights up. “It’s her porn star name.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Her porn star name. You know, you take the name of your first pet, then you add the name of the first address you lived at and you get your porn star name. She’s my first pet, and when I was born we lived on Succabone Avenue. Let’s do you.”

  “Uh… no, no, I really don’t think that’s—”

  “What’s the name of your first pet?”

  The shake of my head is met with narrowed eyes.

  “Tommy,” I relent, with a sigh.

  “Very good. And the first place you lived?”

  I think back, my memory pressing the Play button on a conversation with my late mother, Ruth, back when I was ten, her pointing out the car as we passed a street, saying, “That’s the apartment where we lived until you were n
ine months old.” The street sign flashes before my eyes, and my mind makes the connections, the blood rushing into my cheeks as I see the excitement, the thrill, ignite in Charlie Brown’s eyes.

  “I should be going,” I say, straightening out my tie, putting my stethoscope back in the bag.

  “Oh, come on. Not before you tell me.”

  I inhale, long and deep. “We first lived at Apartment Four, Lovelace Terrace.”

  Her nose wrinkles as she pumps a fist. “Works every time.”

  I shake my head and begin walking back toward the front door.

  “Any chance I can hold on to this file? Take a longer look, do a little research?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  We make it to the front door.

  “You got a girlfriend, Dr. Mills?”

  “That’s a very, uh, forward question to be asking someone you’ve only just met.”

  “Well, do you or don’t you?”

  I think about Amy. I think about how she would respond to someone catching her by the arm and asking, “Hey, aren’t you Cyrus Mills’s girlfriend?”

  “If you must know, and clearly you absolutely must, the answer is… not really… not definitively.”

  Charlie Brown seems inordinately pleased. “I’ll take that as a no.”

  It’s time to steer this conversation back to business. “I’m afraid there is a fee for this visit. Should I call your mother?”

  “No,” she says, way too fast and way too loud, reaching into the front of her pants. There’s a whole lot of squirming and writhing to extract what I think will be wadded-up bills. It’s not. It’s a voucher from Garvey’s for ice cream.

  “Um, I can just bill you. It’s not a problem.”

  She shakes her head and says, “Here, give me your cell phone.”

  Suspicious, I hand over the phone.

  She takes it like I handed her a religious artifact.

  “Wow, Gordon Gekko called, says he wants his phone back.”

  Though I should be insulted about the criticism of my outdated model, I’m impressed by the reference to the movie Wall Street.

  “You an Oliver Stone fan?” I ask.

  She frowns, rocks her hand side to side. “Platoon was okay, but as Vietnam movies go, I’m all about Apocalypse Now. Martin was better than Charlie any day.”

  Wow, a fellow movie buff. I’m impressed. But not surprised. Probably too many nights spent at home alone.