Ever by My Side

Also by Nick Trout

TELL ME WHERE IT HURTS
LOVE IS THE BEST MEDICINE

For more than twenty years I have worked as a veterinarian, blessed with the responsibility of caring for sick animals and in doing so, granted unprecedented access into the unique and powerful bonds between humans and their pets. In my professional life I am constantly striving to make a connection with owner and animal alike and it is always a delicate balancing act. I want the other human in this our triangular relationship to realize that I am sensitive but not too sappy, that I am intrigued but not prying, that I can be objective and scientific but more than prepared to share my own experiences and philosophies. Most of all I want them to see that I understand why they seek my help. I know what motivates their desire to restore their pet to full health. I know what an animal can do for a lonely soul, a family, a broken heart, and an angry state of mind. I know the power of the stuff that cannot be put into words and I won’t ask them to try, because I want them to understand that I get it.

I imagine my life has been similar to those of most people—stuff happens, we make choices, we take a certain path, and many of the decisions we make depend upon the lessons we learned along
the way and how we interpreted their meaning. To my way of thinking it’s like bumper stickers on the back of a clunker—you choose the stickers that reflect your personality and the more you accumulate, the better the guy driving the car behind gets to appreciate the kind of person you really are. I’ve been fortunate enough to spend most of my life around animals, the creatures I have come to think of as my own pets. Each and every one of them has played their part in bringing me to this point. In their own unique way, they have all donated a bumper sticker or two, their message catchy, simple, and above all else, honest.

This book is based on my own recollections of these personal pets (and many more besides) with occasional input and insight from members of my family. In some instances the names and identifiers of individuals central to the story have been changed to maintain anonymity. The result is perhaps less memoir than discerning retrospective, as I take an opportunity to relive a few of the defining moments throughout my life in which animals took their cue, stepped up, and gave me a chance to appreciate a different perspective. This is my attempt to show them off and share their subtle, startling, and inspirational lessons, which have played a small but vital part in helping to shape the person you see with the stethoscope around his neck. As you read on, I truly hope my interpretation of their significance will resonate, will induce a knowing smile, a nod, and maybe a wayward tear, as you too recognize the powerful benefits of the animals in your own life.

I
wish I could tell you I have enjoyed the company of a dog or a cat every day of my life, but it’s simply not true. In fact, my earliest appreciation of pets in any form did not occur until I was four and, even then, was limited to my grandmothers’ dogs.

My mother’s mother possessed a white male toy poodle named Marty. From the start, Marty made it abundantly clear that he had no patience for small curious hands, except perhaps as chew toys. Venture into his territory, that is, anywhere within an invisible fifty-yard perimeter of my grandma’s house, and he would come at you, bouncing forward as if his legs were little pogo sticks, emitting a bark that could crack bulletproof glass, before scurrying away to safety behind grandma’s ankle, only to repeat the process over and over again until he finally ascended into her arms. From this lofty position he could look down at me with an expression that said “If you bother me, I will make you pay in blood and tears.”

Marty was not even a year old and his presence had already negated what few pleasures there were after a two-hour car drive to visit my grandma.

“Sit you down while I put the kettle on,” Gran would say as
everyone rushed for a vacant seat in a game of musical chairs that invariably left me with the sofa where Marty had settled. Curled up on the middle cushion, Marty would emit a throaty, malicious grumble if I so much as inched toward the ends of the couch.

There was also the smell. The entire house reeked of the only food Marty deigned to consume—sausages! I never once saw him eat regular dog food. And I’m not talking about classic British bangers. Marty’s delicate mouth and discriminating palate preferred, no, insisted upon, a small, handcrafted breakfast sausage from a local butcher that had to be fried, allowed to cool, and then carefully chopped into congealed mouth-size pieces. At some point during every visit Gran would excuse herself, go to the kitchen, take up a position next to the stove, and disappear into an oily cloud as she seared sheathed meat that crackled and spat in her direction. I would look over at her and she would smile the smile of old people everywhere, content to check off another comforting chore in her daily routine. Meanwhile Marty might squirm a little on his throne and sigh, not out of boredom, but approval, pleased the hired help was doing his bidding.

Neither my grandma nor my parents ever suggested Marty and I become acquainted or that Marty become socialized around children or that he be reprimanded for his bad manners. Perhaps I couldn’t be trusted not to pinch, yank, rip, or snap as I did with most of my toys. Perhaps they didn’t want to take any chances. Whatever the reason, I kept my distance, painfully curious to discover the feel of his hypoallergenic, steel-wool fur but convinced he would practically explode if I so much as touched him. After a while, I lost all interest in Marty. What was the point? How could I have a relationship with an animal who might as well have been behind bars in a zoo? I couldn’t understand what anyone saw in a pet you couldn’t, well, pet.

On the other hand, my grandmother on my father’s side had a placid female Dalmatian named Cleo and to my delight (and no doubt to the delight of my mother), they occupied a small bungalow next door to our house. In contrast to Marty, Cleo could be completely trusted around children. She was tolerant and forgiving and endowed with seal-pup insulation that possessed a certain … give, similar to a Tempur-Pedic foam mattress. Cleo never tired of me petting her, happy to relinquish her short, fine hairs to my sticky palms, which would soon resemble a pair of black and white mittens. I could fall over her or fall into her and she would either lie there and take it, indifferent to the contact, or rise quickly to her feet and find somewhere else to lie down, as though she was sorry for getting under foot rather than angry at being disturbed. At the time, my little sister, Fiona, was too small to play with me, so I was thrilled to share our backyard with a big old spotty dog who never once regarded me as though I were a tasty hors d’oeuvre.

To fully appreciate the bond that formed between me and Cleo, you have to understand our shared interest in swallowing inanimate objects and to help you do so I must mention a chilling yet formative recollection from my childhood.

Late one night, barefoot and immersed in oversized cotton pajamas, this four-year-old boy stood alone in the kitchen having snuck out of bed in search of a snack and a glass of milk. I have always been partial to yogurt, methodically working my way to the bottom of the carton, scraping every last pink glob of strawberry-colored additives off the plastic and onto my spoon. Even now I can recall the feel of that particular spoon, cool and smooth and small, like a silver christening spoon, satisfyingly tinkly on my deciduous teeth and almost weightless in my mouth. With the yogurt gone and my mind in a dull and dreamy state, I began playing with the spoon in the back of my mouth, appreciating the metallic sensation way
back on my tongue and how it was possible to push it a little farther and induce gagging, a sharp and forceful contraction deep in my belly—until somewhere just beyond this point, the reflex of actual swallowing took over, involuntary and, to my horror, completely irreversible. I felt the tiny handle leaving my fingertips and slipping from my grasp, and suddenly, like the yogurt, the spoon was gone, disappearing deep inside my body.