By Carolyn R. Russell
I stumble out of the rain on one of those cold late April afternoons that seems to only happen in New England and into the veterinary office with Lucas, my five-pound pup, who shivers in my arms while gnawing on a long strand of my wet hair. The crowded reception area is filled with anxiously fidgeting humans and distressed pets. The people are no doubt worried about the fact that the clinic usually closes at noon on Fridays, and it is now half past one. The place won’t open again until Monday and I’m guessing nobody wants to risk needing to go to the expensive, anonymous emergency care hospital in the city. The cats and dogs look demonstratively miserable, pets sick enough that everyone here is willing to stay late for their evaluation.
I check in with the front-facing staff and I am, as always, touched by their empathy. One of them, a freckle-faced woman with sea-green eyes, gives Lucas a shiny smile that falters as her eyes meet mine. She hands me a Kleenex and I wipe the rain off my face. Or maybe they’re tears.
They call Lucas’s name and he looks into my eyes the way he always does, like he can see into my soul. We follow a vet I haven’t met before who tells me to call him Arlo. The room we enter is filled with shiny metallic surfaces. Looking at them makes my headache worse and I feel too wretched to be chatty. Lucas’ head is now pressed against my ribcage, his nose in the armpit of my cardigan and he’s shaking. I comfort him as I respond to Arlo’s questions, and he records my answers on a tablet.
Arlo pauses and looks over at Lucas and me. In a soft voice he says, “So, besides the trembling, and the vomiting, and the other uncharacteristic behaviors you’ve mentioned, is there anything else?”
I ask if he has Lucas’ history in his files, and he says “Yes,” but he’d like to hear it from me if that’s okay.
“You know that Lucas is a special needs dog,” I say.
“He has four limbs and five feet,” says Arlo. “That’s pretty special.”
I manage a grin. “Yeah. We had to get a purebred rather than a rescue because I needed a hypoallergenic dog. We went to visit with a breeder’s new litter and fell in love with Lucas, and the breeder tried to steer us toward other puppies for like 15 minutes. Then she showed us his bifurcated left foot and said she couldn’t sell him because of it, couldn’t vouch for his health. She ended up just giving Lucas to us. Wouldn’t take a penny.” I stopped.
“And….,” Arlo prodded.
“We, I, worry maybe more than I should about him because of all that. I don’t know. But I’m glad you’ll check him out.”
“Sure thing,” says Arlo.
I gently coerce Lucas into loosening his grip on my sweater and Arlo disappears with him into another room. I’m suddenly shivering and I look for a window to close, but there are none.
A bit later, Arlo comes back holding Lucas, who is pasted against his chest. Lucas’ eyes look dreamy, his body relaxed. I reach for him and he lurches into my arms and closes his eyes. Arlo asks me to sit down next to him on one of the scruffy chairs I’d been avoiding; their stained corduroy upholstery suggest a long, messy history. But I take a seat.
“Is he sedated?” I ask.
Arlo laughs. “No. I think he’s just tuckered out. I examined him, and Lucas seems physically fine.”
I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“If his symptoms persist, we’ll probably want to do some blood work. Possibly more. If it’s not an illness, though, it could be behavioral.”
I ask him what that term means when applied to a dog.
“Well,” says Arlo, “has there been any stress at your house lately?”
I can feel my face get warm and I nearly shake my head. Instead, I focus on the man’s kind eyes.
“It’s tax season,” I say carefully. “My husband and I have been going through a certain amount of … upset.”
“Ah,” says the vet. “I understand.” His voice is very gentle.
He leans forward. “Taxes,” he says and then pauses. “Taxes are hard. Sometimes it helps to bring in an expert, you know?”
I nod.
“My wife and I had one season when we thought we might lose our minds. We got help. We ended up needing to … take an extension, but it’s all worked out fine.”
“I’m so glad to hear that,” I blurt out. “Might you have a recommendation for a … professional?”
He fishes for his cell phone in his pocket, taps it a few times, and hands it to me. I take it and copy the information into my own.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll talk it over with my husband.”
Arlo stands up. “Do remember that if your husband isn’t immediately on board, you can go on your own. And then possibly he’ll change his mind, once he starts listening. That’s how it happened for me and Debbie.”
I shake Arlo’s hand maybe a few seconds too long and then Lucas and I leave. In the lobby, I pay the bill and after thanking the staff for staying late, we step outside.
The sky has cleared. Lucas makes a familiar sound and I put him down on the artificial grass of the dog yard. He skips across it, lithe as always despite his wonky foot and hopping gait. Slipping through a hole in the fencing, he heads straight to an adjacent muddy area. He stops and as I get closer I can see he’s investigating a patch of newly blooming daffodils still glistening from the earlier downpour. He seems much better.
* * *
Carolyn R. Russell is a multiple Best Microfiction winner and multiple Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best Small Fictions nominee. Her short stories, poetry, and creative nonfiction have been featured in numerous publications. She is the author of four books, the latest of which is a collection of cross-genre flash called “Death and Other Survival Strategies” (Vine Leaves Press, 2023). She also writes for the screen and has a TV thriller series currently in development. Carolyn lives on and writes from Boston’s North Shore.