The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel by Nick Trout Read Free Book Online

whether she’s being crafty or clueless. Either way, she’ll get no argument from me. Not counting last night’s failed attempt at Frieda’s euthanasia, it is now Kai who has the dubious honor of being my first clinical conundrum as a real veterinarian.
    “Well,” I say, “I’d like to give it a shot, if that’s okay, ma’am.”
    It’s hard to know whether she recoils from my “foreign” accent or me. Ridiculous. Live in the South for a while and even a die-hard Yankee will pick up a subtle lilt and an occasional drawl. My inflection has a hint of Rhett Butler at most. She acts like all she hears is pure hillbilly. Perhaps I should let her know I was born in nearby Burlington.
    Mrs. Silverman huffs as I come around the examination table to take a closer look at Kai. I notice how she avoids physical contact with him, as though feeling sorry for him does not entail actually touching him. Kai, it seems, is the leper who deserves a cure but until such time remains unsightly.
    Despite their appearance, Siberian huskies are not actually wolves. Wolves survived the Ice Age, whereas huskies only came to the States in the early twentieth century. Predatory menace has been traded for big periwinkle eyes reaching out to me, begging for a scratch. I look over at Mrs. Silverman—she’s acting hawkish, ready to attack my professional shortcomings. It seems I have no choice. I command my lips to smile, take a step forward, press my fingertips into the skin between his shoulder blades, and begin to scratch.
    It’s disgusting—greasy keratin, fungi, and all manner of secondary bacteria infesting my cuticles. Why didn’t I put on a pair of gloves? The only upside, and it’s minor, is Kai’s response—arching his spine into the contact, tail wagging, obviously thrilled by my manual exfoliation technique.
    As soon as I offered to see appointments last night, Lewis insisted on giving me a crash course in the art of a thorough physical examination. It’s like riding a bike, once you learn you never forget . The thing is I feel as though I am going through the motions, petting rather than palpating. I try my best to remember the highlights from Lewis’s lesson in bedside manner. When you’re listening to the chest with your stethoscope, be sure to let your eyes drift around the room like you’re concentrating . My attempt at rolling my eyes probably looks as though I’m about to faint. Nod every now and then, and don’t forget to smile. Owners like that sort of thing. Makes them think you can actually hear something . My nod is more of a spasm, my smile distinctly nervous, and the frown on Mrs. Silverman’s face suggests she is far from impressed.
    However, I do know that Kai likes when I scratch any crusty area of his skin because he melts and thanks me for the distraction and temporary relief. He dislikes, though, when I examine the cracked and ulcerated webs of his footpads, pulling away and showing me his teeth. Trouble is I can’t tell if he’s actually going to bite me or giving me fair warning. I’m totally out of practice interpreting the message in his coarse communication, and as a result, I’m hopelessly jumpy. I must look like I’m ready to run screaming from the room, jazz hands fluttering overhead.
    “Well?” says Mrs. Silverman.
    I make a show of the raised eyebrows and the stern countenance of someone who is clearly impressed and not someone who is clearly clueless. If you don’t know what to say or do, take a rectal temperature, it will give you a few extra minutes to think .
    “Let me take his temperature.”
    Thermometer in place, I consider the dog’s age.
    “Inherited diseases of the husky. What have I got? Hip dysplasia. Genetic eye diseases: juvenile cataracts, corneal dystrophy, and progressive retinal atrophy. These can occur with any eye color. Then there is …”
    “What are you mumbling on about?”
    Her question brings me back into the moment. The dog’s age has to be important,