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

the distribution of lesions, and the fact that they involve very specific parts of the body. And that’s when a picture forms in my mind. As usual, I’ve jumped straight to a conclusion and a strange one at that. For some reason I see the black-and-white image of a child, eyes letterboxed for anonymity, from a textbook of, of all things, human skin disorders.
    “I’m assuming Doc Lewis ruled out the possibility of parasites?”
    I check Kai’s temperature—perfectly normal.
    Mrs. Silverman stares through me, offers her dog a pitying glance, and shakes her head.
    “Course he has,” she says, and under her breath I hear her add, “you damned fool.” My fingers begin to twitch, and Mrs. Silverman notices, forcing me to shove my hands under my armpits.
    “Look, if you ain’t seen nothing like it, speak up and we’ll be on our way. And don’t be thinking I’m paying for this visit. I’m only here out of loyalty to Doc Cobb and Doc Lewis. Just as easy for me to go to that fancy new practice in Patton. Bet they’d have the answer for me.”
    She makes a grab for Kai’s leash and gets out of her chair, surprisingly spry for her years. After my conversation with Mr. Critchley from Green State Bank and his insistence on a good faith payment, I can’t afford to lose a single client.
    And if you are totally clueless, try, “This thermometer must be broken. I’m going to grab a new one,” then head out back and try to look up what’s wrong .
    “No, please.” I snap, the desperation in my voice giving her pause. “If you could bear with me for one more minute, Mrs. Silverman.” I pat the air between us, hoping she will sit back down. “I think my thermometer might be broken. I’ll be right back.”
    I exit the examination room by a side door marked PRIVATE and enter the large work area containing a bank of cages, two dog runs, an old soapstone sink, and a wall of cabinets, counters, and drawers, home to pills, capsules, ointments, and syrups.
    “Ah, Cyrus, good morning. Decide what you’re going to do with that golden retriever of yours?”
    Fielding Lewis watches me over the rim of his coffee cup, leaning into the countertop, the Eden Falls Gazette spread out before him. Today’s bow tie has a New Orleans feel—purple, gold, and green fleurs-de-lys.
    “Not exactly,” I say, scanning the room for a hard drive or a monitor. “Has the man who brought her in been back to sign the paperwork?”
    Lewis shakes his head.
    “Someone recognized her last night when I took her for a walk.”
    “Really,” says Lewis. “Well, I’ve never seen her before. Maybe her vet’s in Patton?”
    “Maybe. What d’you think of me taking her to an adoption center? Or a retriever rescue group?”
    “Fine. Do it. Too bad you can’t use the ‘Wall of Fame.’ ”
    Lewis reads my confusion and explains. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the wall next to the front door? The one covered with dog photos?”
    I shake my head.
    “It’s like a lasting tribute to all the dogs Bobby Cobb found homes for over the years. If someone came across a stray dog, if a dog needed to be adopted because its owner was relocating or lost a job or died, Cobb posted the pet’s picture on the wall. Made sure they found a good home. People even joked about him being the Patron Saint of Lost Dogs.”
    “Wait a minute,” I say, “last night you told me we’re not in the animal rescue business, that we can’t afford to be.”
    “We can’t. Who do you think was providing food for these dogs while they were waiting to be adopted? Let alone paying for vaccines, worm, flea, and tick treatments?”
    “He did it all for free?”
    Lewis nodded. “There’s not even a donation box up front. Don’t look so surprised. You’ve seen the figures for this practice. Cobb was running it into the ground through kindness.”
    I’m not in the least bit surprised. Bad business labeled as one more saintly act by the pet lovers of Eden Falls sounded