owner had beaten him within an inch of his life before surrendering him.
“The guy who owned him,” Kenny continued, “went all the way through school with me, I’ve known him my whole life. But I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again.”
I approached the table and Dewey wailed even louder, pressing his body as hard against the Milk Maiden as he dared. There was so much blood on his head I couldn’t tell if he was still bleeding, if his skull was fractured, if those enormous ears were actually attached. I put my hand on his back just as the vet walked in, and at the sound of the door shutting he jumped straight up in the air, nearly falling off the table, which caused me to jump, and Kenny to scream like a nine-year-old girl.
The vet, Dr. Morris I’ll call her, was entirely calm and composed and caused all of us to regain our sensibilities, even Kenny, who was trailing a string of gauze wrapped around his left hand and who seemed a tad undone.
“His head seems okay,” Dr. Morris said, feeling around the dog’s eye sockets and looking in Dewey’s ears, even as his screams broke up into yips and hiccups and he shook until his feet were dancing on the metal table. “He’ll be able to see fine once this blood clears up, and he has a broken rib or two, but that will heal. His legs aren’t broken; I don’t think he has internal injuries, but you’ll need to keep an eye on him.” It was consistently difficult to tell if Dewey was going to bite someone. Half the time he seemed right on the verge of snapping, and the other half he seemed about to go into cardiac arrest. “He needs to be neutered, and I’ll give him his vaccinations before you leave today.”
So that was that. I didn’t need to fill out an application or explain whether I had a fenced-in yard or if I intended to test my bathtub LSD on Dewey’s little brain. No one there could afford to act as if it mattered. Dewey was going to die if I left him; if I took him and abused him, he’d at least bought a few more days on the planet, for what that was worth.
I went out to my truck and brought in the baby wipes and towels I’d brought, along with some biscuits and rawhides. I’d imagined having a normal meeting with Dewey, the sort one has with dogs wherein you offer them a treat and they see you as the Big Treat Giver and know you are Good. Now the whole bag looked paltry and naive.
After Dr. Morris was done with her exam and had given Dewey his shots, I asked that he be put on the floor, where he at least might feel comfortable in the knowledge he wasn’t going to fall off the shiny steel table. Large Hormonal Girl insisted on moving him, still afraid he might bite me. Kenny stepped back into a corner. I sat down next to the dog, and slowly began wiping some of the blood off his face and chest with the baby wipes (added benefit: no diaper rash). He trembled and cried, his tail tucked between his legs, his back arched like a cat’s. Kenny shook his head and clucked. The Large Girl looked down at us dreamily. “He’s going to be so happy with you, I can just tell,” she said, slowly. I nodded. Everyone in that clinic was completely mad, I now understood. Because Dewey was never going to be happy again, not anywhere, not with anyone.
“By the way,” Kenny said, scratching his chin under his thick beard. “I don’t think old Dewey there has ever seen grass. He was kept in a kennel outdoors with a concrete floor. When he first got here I tried to take him out to go to the bathroom, and when his paws touched the grass he jumped back like he was on FAHR.”
I wanted to ask, What more? What more could you possibly tell me? He’s a bearer of monkeypox? He’s packed with explosives? I cleaned him up as best I could, then just accepted what I’d done, like the good little existentialist I used to be. I put the collar on Dewey I’d brought from home, and the leash, and tried to get him to follow me out the door. As we passed the
“The guy who owned him,” Kenny continued, “went all the way through school with me, I’ve known him my whole life. But I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again.”
I approached the table and Dewey wailed even louder, pressing his body as hard against the Milk Maiden as he dared. There was so much blood on his head I couldn’t tell if he was still bleeding, if his skull was fractured, if those enormous ears were actually attached. I put my hand on his back just as the vet walked in, and at the sound of the door shutting he jumped straight up in the air, nearly falling off the table, which caused me to jump, and Kenny to scream like a nine-year-old girl.
The vet, Dr. Morris I’ll call her, was entirely calm and composed and caused all of us to regain our sensibilities, even Kenny, who was trailing a string of gauze wrapped around his left hand and who seemed a tad undone.
“His head seems okay,” Dr. Morris said, feeling around the dog’s eye sockets and looking in Dewey’s ears, even as his screams broke up into yips and hiccups and he shook until his feet were dancing on the metal table. “He’ll be able to see fine once this blood clears up, and he has a broken rib or two, but that will heal. His legs aren’t broken; I don’t think he has internal injuries, but you’ll need to keep an eye on him.” It was consistently difficult to tell if Dewey was going to bite someone. Half the time he seemed right on the verge of snapping, and the other half he seemed about to go into cardiac arrest. “He needs to be neutered, and I’ll give him his vaccinations before you leave today.”
So that was that. I didn’t need to fill out an application or explain whether I had a fenced-in yard or if I intended to test my bathtub LSD on Dewey’s little brain. No one there could afford to act as if it mattered. Dewey was going to die if I left him; if I took him and abused him, he’d at least bought a few more days on the planet, for what that was worth.
I went out to my truck and brought in the baby wipes and towels I’d brought, along with some biscuits and rawhides. I’d imagined having a normal meeting with Dewey, the sort one has with dogs wherein you offer them a treat and they see you as the Big Treat Giver and know you are Good. Now the whole bag looked paltry and naive.
After Dr. Morris was done with her exam and had given Dewey his shots, I asked that he be put on the floor, where he at least might feel comfortable in the knowledge he wasn’t going to fall off the shiny steel table. Large Hormonal Girl insisted on moving him, still afraid he might bite me. Kenny stepped back into a corner. I sat down next to the dog, and slowly began wiping some of the blood off his face and chest with the baby wipes (added benefit: no diaper rash). He trembled and cried, his tail tucked between his legs, his back arched like a cat’s. Kenny shook his head and clucked. The Large Girl looked down at us dreamily. “He’s going to be so happy with you, I can just tell,” she said, slowly. I nodded. Everyone in that clinic was completely mad, I now understood. Because Dewey was never going to be happy again, not anywhere, not with anyone.
“By the way,” Kenny said, scratching his chin under his thick beard. “I don’t think old Dewey there has ever seen grass. He was kept in a kennel outdoors with a concrete floor. When he first got here I tried to take him out to go to the bathroom, and when his paws touched the grass he jumped back like he was on FAHR.”
I wanted to ask, What more? What more could you possibly tell me? He’s a bearer of monkeypox? He’s packed with explosives? I cleaned him up as best I could, then just accepted what I’d done, like the good little existentialist I used to be. I put the collar on Dewey I’d brought from home, and the leash, and tried to get him to follow me out the door. As we passed the
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