Ever by My Side (30 page)

Suddenly an important consideration crossed my mind.

“What did you decide to do … with his body, I mean?”

“He’s going to be buried in a field up by Watery Lane. The property’s owned by a friend in the village and there are a few other dogs buried there. It’s a nice, quite private spot.”

This was good. A resting place close to where they lived. Inadvertently, once again, I found myself thinking about Patch, laid to rest under an apple tree in the backyard of a house now owned by a complete stranger.

“How’s Bess holding up?”

“Ah, she’s having a hard time of it. Been looking everywhere for him like the old days when he ran away, like she wants to tell him off for being naughty. It made me wonder if I should have let her be there, to watch him go.”

I’d never thought about this. I’m not sure dogs are capable of understanding the concept of death, but they are sensitive to changes in their environment, structure, and routine. There must be confusion, a sense of upheaval, even loneliness. I hadn’t thought to ask owners in this situation with multiple dogs whether or not they thought a member of the pack would benefit from witnessing a canine euthanasia and viewing their sibling’s body after the fact. I see no harm in trying, if a grieving owner thinks it is the right thing to do.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “It was probably going to be hard on her either way. The two of them were used to having each other for the last fourteen years.”

“You’re probably right. It was just a thought.”

I tried to stifle a yawn, it being the middle of the night, but Dad still caught it.

“I’m sorry, son. I’ll let you go.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Look, I was going to call you over the weekend to let you know I’m going to take a job in Boston. Back at Angell Memorial. I know it’s not England, but it is a single flight and literally just an ocean away.”

“Ah, that’s grand. That’ll make it a lot easier to visit.”

“And please, Dad, next time, if anything happens with Bess, feel free to ask me for advice. I know I’m not much use when it comes to
everything outside of an operating room, but I can still get you answers. I’d still like to try to help.”

“Right you are,” said Dad. “I’ll definitely do that from here on out. God bless, son. Get some rest.”

But as I hung up and tried to go back to sleep, this goodbye replayed itself in my head and no matter how I tried to mix and edit the sentiment, I heard nothing new, the words lacking conviction. I realized I had forced my dad to write me off as his veterinarian. Even when seeking my support, he was the one making me feel better when it should have been the other way round. Just for once I wished I could be there for him when it came to the animals in his life. As I succumbed to sleep, trying to force the dream, I wasn’t convinced I would ever get the chance.

W
hen Reggie returned to the wilds of Massachusetts I imagine he must have felt like a lifer from Leavenworth spending a day at “juvie hall.” Finally rehabilitated in what for him was his element, he headed out on a fresh tour of duty, working his latest backyard as if he had already planned a route using Google Earth. Head high, shoulder blades keeping the beat, tail up, he looked almost cocky, the new kid on the block, more than confident—defiant. What could possibly threaten this veteran of desert combat? The chipmunk? The woodchuck? A wild turkey? I imagined him coming across a garter snake and thinking, “Is that all you’ve got?” At the end of his first day Reggie came home with a little Ali shuffle in his stride, enough bluster to let us all know it had been a good day and it was good to be home.

For a while we had a run on classic doormat offerings, which I put down to his desire to show me how much he approved of his new domain. However, it wasn’t long before daily became weekly became monthly, and though Reggie defined feline freedom, it had become apparent that he was increasingly an indoor cat. Open a linen closet any time of day and there was Reggie, third shelf up,
curled into a ball and fast asleep. With increasing frequency I’d find him on the children’s beds, in front of the fireplace, at full stretch in a shaft of sunlight. Suddenly Reggie was all about leisure and relaxation. When I picked him up I could feel the extra weight of him. Then it hit me. Reggie wasn’t being lazy or bingeing on too much kibble, he was simply getting old. Reginald C. Cat was starting to bask in his retirement.

“How old is he?” I asked Kathy.

“We’ll never know for sure, but maybe fifteen, sixteen. Something around there.”

I was surprised. He was already at a fine age for any cat. His choice of a sedentary lifestyle seemed to have come upon him so quickly, almost as if, now that he was home, he could let down his guard and succumb to a simpler, less stressful environment.

Sophie appeared equally at home in what, for her, was exotic territory. Unfortunately her comfort zone knew no boundaries, and the backyard was simply a gateway to a new world in which she could ignore all pesky name-calling and explore to her little heart’s content. Improved (and costly) picket fencing took care of any possible aerial perimeter breach, but the terrier in her took full advantage of the rich loamy soil, burrowing for freedom like a prisoner in a World War II movie. Though the house opened onto dense forest and conservation land, the road out front was heavily trafficked. If Sophie was sufficiently motivated to cross the street, the stubborn terrier in her would defy all attempts to stop her getting there.

There are those who argue invisible fencing is a lazy alternative to appropriate training. For me, despite hours of training, it was a necessary alternative to the unthinkable. I could diminish the threat of a tunnel break. I couldn’t make it go away completely. Besides, for Sophie, learning to use a shock collar was easy. She simply watched a bunch of Whitney’s guy friends from high school, intent on
mimicking their heroes on MTV’s
Jackass
. Clutching the collar to their necks they would run into the danger zone, ignore the audible warning, and press on, screaming and visibly surprised to receive an electric shock. They may not have lit up the night sky but Sophie registered their distress. From there on out, the beeping noise alone would make her back off.

Though the assignation of Sophie to Whitney had always been unofficial, the passage of time only served to strengthen and clarify their connection, the two inseparable, like Paris Hilton and her dogs, long before she was a household name. Sophie was more like a girlfriend than a dog—trustworthy, receptive, and guaranteed to never join a rival clique, to never stab you in the back or turn into a bitch. She and Whitney even had the exact same taste in boys. She never hogged the remote because, like Whitney, she loved
Dawson’s Creek
and
The O.C
. Now that Sophie was a little older and a whole lot calmer, every night had turned into a sleepover and on weekends she was more than happy to get her toenails painted hot pink. And Sophie loved to get pampered with a shampoo and blow dry, emerging from the bathroom like a greyhound out of the gate, feeling the air through her soft coat as she embarked on a mad dash around the house, cutting around furniture, her Day-Glo nails clicking out a wild staccato rhythm across the hardwood floors.

Contrary to my father’s prediction, I was happy to take her for walks—when she wasn’t wearing nail polish—until one day she bared a side of her whose existence he had long suspected.

When Sophie was a puppy we had gone to great lengths to ensure she was appropriately socialized with both people and other animals. On her first birthday she had hosted (thanks to Whitney
and Emily) a party to which all the neighborhood dogs were invited. There had been some chowing down of “cake”—a frightening concoction the kids cooked up out of dry and canned dog food—plus games and toys and swimming, all without gnashing of teeth. Okay, so one fine Saint Bernard named Chantelle plowed straight through a screen door in her excitement to join in the fun, but what I witnessed was a feisty terrier who integrated well with other dogs.

While Sophie maintained exemplary social graces with humans, so long as you consider rolling on your back and splaying out your crotch as acceptable, the wind was changing when it came to other members of her species. As part of settling into her new home, I anticipated she might become a little ill at ease, a little territorial and protective of the property entrusted to her care. I just wasn’t prepared for her to take this attitude to the streets.

Funny how walking the dog can make you realize that it’s not as easy to be a good pet owner as you thought. For years I had been criticizing my father over the way in which Whiskey and Bess insisted on dislocating his shoulder joints. And apparently I was no better as fifteen pounds of determined terrier drove me forward, angled low, ignoring all my attempts to bribe or cajole her to come to heel, fanning back and forth as if she were divining for water. Like so many dog owners who don’t take enough time and make enough effort, I was held hostage to a dog determined to take me for a walk. If only my father could see me now.

They were at least a hundred yards away when I spotted them, headed in our direction, no more than stick figures. In seconds, distorted black lines in the fading daylight had transformed into a man and some kind of a dog, fairly large, I thought, perhaps something the size of a golden retriever. I knew Sophie had spotted them on her radar because she had stopped tugging on her leash and
stood at rigid attention with her short tail sticking straight up, flashing a warning.

“Easy, Sophie.”

I reached out to calm her, but as I did she rushed forward again, stretching her leash, grumbling and growling, pawing at her collar. I always knew Sophie was smart, but I have never been able to find her opposable thumb or figure out what slick sleight-of-paw she used to get that collar off. Without skipping a beat she was charging toward the other dog, barking her head off with that insistent, determined, formidable terrier savagery. I don’t think the dog, a chow chow, as it turned out, ever saw what hit her. One moment she’s happily, innocently bouncing down a hill, her master at her side, the next she’s hit by a furry white bullet. Naturally I offered chase, Sophie selectively deaf to my cries, the effect of my pursuit only adding to the drama as the two of us rushed toward the two of them. With hindsight, Sophie’s lunge at the poor dog’s neck was a tad theatrical, the action appearing to unfold with something of a
Matrix
slow-motion quality. Within seconds, I had grabbed her and pulled her off the chow and only then did I realize my dilemma. Oh, it wasn’t the dog, who couldn’t have been more passive. It was the owner, and it wasn’t that I knew the owner, more that I knew
of
the owner. The man responded in exactly the appropriate manner, appalled and flabbergasted, attentive to his own dog as I secured Sophie, tethering her to a lamppost. Strangely, the savage edge had left her, as if she had won the fight and wanted to make sure the other guy, KO’d on the canvas, was still alive. It was as if the terrier taste for blood had been satiated, only when I inspected her muzzle, there was no blood. I hurried over to the victim, embarrassed, and offering a sincere apology.

“You had best check her over,” said the stranger, conveying the message: “Yes, I know what you do for a living, as well.”

My knowledge of the man was gleaned through rumor, innuendo, and snippets of conversation overheard at girls’ basketball games, on soccer sidelines, and at school plays. He was a lawyer, of course, inclined toward personal injury, and what he lacked in altitude he made up for in a grim sneer recognizable as his habitual facial expression. With minimal effort he tweaked his countenance into a frosty glare and I couldn’t help but feel like he was already practicing for the moment when he called me to the stand, swore me in, and took my testimony apart.

The chow lay on her side, more out of choice than incapacitation, and, despite the assault, she was calm and remarkably easy to work on.

“The skin’s not broken. There’s no blood and I can’t see any puncture marks.”

By now the light was poor so I couldn’t be certain, but I was hopeful Sophie had only aimed for a love bite and nothing more.

“I’m assuming that dog is fully vaccinated.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. The chow chow got to her feet, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Sophie starting to get agitated, but in a good way, doing the dancing deer move, eyes locked on their target, all four feet making small synchronous vertical jumps. She wanted to come over, this time to say hello properly.

“Look, if there’s a problem you discover when you get home or over the next few days, don’t hesitate to give me a call. My number’s in the phone book.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be sure to call,” he said, and I sensed he enjoyed this last word, this open-ended possibility that the next time the phone rang at my house, he might be on the other end suggesting I speak to my insurance company or “lawyer up.”

As it turned out, I called him. He may not have been a client, nor was the chow chow officially a patient, but professional experience
has taught me that I often fare better after a thorny encounter if I use preemptive communication. My inquiry as to his dog’s health caught him off guard but, begrudgingly, he sounded somewhat grateful for the follow-up.