Dog Medicine by Julie Barton Read Free Book Online Page B

that your thoughts are out of control, is disorienting. It’s like sitting down on a couch and then watching your body walk away without you. This is the time to ask for help. But I wasn’t aware enough to know that help was what I needed. I was like a newborn too: helpless, blind, weak.
    The closer I got to Ohio, the stronger the connection between me and Bunker must have become. I remember pulling into the garage thinking about the dogs of my youth, how they provided me with such solace. It occurred to me then that maybe I could try again and get my own dog. A dog I could protect. A dog that would protect me. It was just a thought.

M IDNIGHT, O HIO
    1977 AND 1980
    The first dog I remember loving was named Midnight. We found her abandoned in a car wash during a blizzard when I was four and my brother was seven. Family legend has her shivering in the corner with icicles dangling from her matted fur. My mom snatched her up, drove her home, and never posted “dog found” signs, because whoever owned the dog, she reasoned, was irresponsible. And besides, we all fell in love with her. My parents decided she was a cock-a-poo, half cocker spaniel and half poodle. She had soft, tight curled fur and a long, thin tail.
    My dad, in particular, adored Midnight. She didn’t soil the house. She didn’t shed. She liked to snuggle and was interminably happy. “Midnight is the best dog we’ve ever had,” he would say. He liked to declare a lot of wonderful things, and I loved this about him. “We are the luckiest people that she came to us. It was meant to be—for us to find her. Amazing dog, that dog.” I would listen, near rapture. I felt the same way, and his similarly deep connection with our dog left me elated. Midnight would twirl adoringly at his feet and he would bend over, all six athletic feet of him, and pick her up, letting her cover his face in kisses. He’d say things like, “Oh, yes, I love you too. I love you too, good girl.”
    All little girls love their dogs, but I felt a desperate kind of love for Midnight. I would call her to me, and as if she knew how much I needed her, she came running. When she curled up in my lap, I felt my breathing regulate, my skin relax, my shoulders loosen. I was protective of her because our house felt safe when Midnight was around.
    When Clay and I fought, Midnight hid. She would run to my parents’ room, flatten her body, her back legs stretched into a frog-like splay and scoot under their bed. Then she’d army-crawl all the way to the wall, shivering. Sometimes, after the fight, I would try to coax her out, but she would look at me suspiciously from the dark corner, unmoving. Other times when she hid, I would just sit silently next to my parents’ bed, waiting. Usually, she’d come out cowering, her pressed-down tail still wagging at the very tip. She would whimper a little, curl into my lap, and lick me furiously.
    â€œIt’s okay,” I would whisper. “We’re okay.” And I would tell her that sometimes people fight. Sometimes I’d cry and say I was stupid. Sometimes I’d cry and say that Clay was stupid. Most often I’d just be silent. My brother and I fought daily. We’d insult each other, yell at each other, and inevitably, he would lunge at me and hit me, hard. At seven years old, I knew what a punch to the head felt like. I knew what a kick on the shin felt like. I knew what a bad blow to the gut felt like.
    One day my mom locked Midnight in the laundry closet. She said not to open the door because Midnight would bite. She held up her hand, which bore a gory brown and purple bruise.
    â€œMidnight did that?” I asked.
    â€œWe think she hurt her back. She’s really sick, honey. It hurts her to move.”
    â€œWhy isn’t she at the doctor?” I asked.
    â€œI tried to take her, but she bit me when I approached her. So I called, and the vet said to just