heart.”
“Her heart?”
Eileen thought back to the house call, wondering if Dr. Judy had been holding back on her when she listened to Helen’s chest. That difficulty hearing her heart with a stethoscope, was that indicative of heart disease?
“Eileen,” said Dr. J., with the uncanny gift of a mind reader, “spaniels are a breed susceptible to heart valve disease. It’s called endocarditis, and oral bacteria can be a major underlying cause of the problem. Anyone anesthetizing Helen would be crazy not to want to thoroughly check out her heart.”
Eileen appreciated the explanation but was disappointed that there was one more hurdle standing in the way of relieving poor Helen’s toothaches.
“Don’t worry,” said Dr. J. “I’ll set it all up with a cardiologist I know. She’s wonderful.”
“Where does she practice?” said Eileen.
“She’s at Angell. Angell Animal Medical Center in Boston.”
Eileen looked down at the little black dog by her feet, wondering what secrets her body was trying to hide. Helen was an enigma, of indeterminate provenance. What mementos of her former life lay hidden beneath her fur, beyond the smiling eyes and twitching tail? What price had this innocent creature paid for her neglect?
One certainty struck Eileen powerfully—
nothing bad must happen to this dog
.
J ANUARY in Bermuda can be iffy. Of course everything is relative and Bermudians are permanently blessed with miles of pink sand and gin-clear water, but come January they brace for brutal winds and horizontal rain, the honeymooners keep away, and tourist beaches become a playground for local dogs, bare feet and paw prints side by side in the sand.
Compared to the interior of Canada, winter in Bermuda will always feel positively tropical. And so, Sandi, who had settled in Calgary and who was working long hours, thought a frisky fourteen-month-old Cleo would love the warm weather and constant attention a visit to “Aunt” Sonja in Bermuda would bring.
Cleo had already become the consummate international jet-setter. Her impeccable manners and placid demeanor wooed even the most militant of flight attendants and caused protracted deplaning for anyone seated behind her. And it was obvious she relished all the time she could get with Sonja’s male Min Pin, Odin. The two dogs bonded with the familiarity of cousins thrilled to have one another at family gatherings, prowling the backyard together, chasing lizards, mocked by the calls of kiskadees, romping in the lush Bermuda grass as palm fronds whispered overhead. Sonja loved to watch themengage, politely taking their turns dominating and submitting, smiling as they played out their mouthy bravado and then, exhausted, cherishing each other’s company as they slept it off. And like an anxious mother hovering by the sandbox, daughter Sonja always felt the weight of her responsibility for her canine guest’s safety. Not only did she know how much Cleo meant to her mother, she sensed that this creature supplied all the things that were missing in their own mother—daughter relationship. Sonja wasn’t jealous or resentful, and this had never been discussed, but she only had to hear her mother talk about Cleo to know an emotional void had been filled by a surrogate. To some extent it was a relief knowing her mom had found a vessel for her emotional outpourings. But the pleasure of sharing Cleo for a few weeks was always offset by a degree of worry, not least because of the poor dog’s eventful medical history in such a short amount of living.
It started back in Canada when Cleo was only five months old. Already a gifted canine socialite, Miss Popularity had been unable to contain herself when she and Sandi pulled into their familiar doggy day-care parking lot. As unpredictable as it is common, a classic scenario unfolded.
Sandi was sliding out of the car with Cleo cradled in her arms when another dog trotted past. For whatever reason—new kid in school, the exciting
“Her heart?”
Eileen thought back to the house call, wondering if Dr. Judy had been holding back on her when she listened to Helen’s chest. That difficulty hearing her heart with a stethoscope, was that indicative of heart disease?
“Eileen,” said Dr. J., with the uncanny gift of a mind reader, “spaniels are a breed susceptible to heart valve disease. It’s called endocarditis, and oral bacteria can be a major underlying cause of the problem. Anyone anesthetizing Helen would be crazy not to want to thoroughly check out her heart.”
Eileen appreciated the explanation but was disappointed that there was one more hurdle standing in the way of relieving poor Helen’s toothaches.
“Don’t worry,” said Dr. J. “I’ll set it all up with a cardiologist I know. She’s wonderful.”
“Where does she practice?” said Eileen.
“She’s at Angell. Angell Animal Medical Center in Boston.”
Eileen looked down at the little black dog by her feet, wondering what secrets her body was trying to hide. Helen was an enigma, of indeterminate provenance. What mementos of her former life lay hidden beneath her fur, beyond the smiling eyes and twitching tail? What price had this innocent creature paid for her neglect?
One certainty struck Eileen powerfully—
nothing bad must happen to this dog
.
J ANUARY in Bermuda can be iffy. Of course everything is relative and Bermudians are permanently blessed with miles of pink sand and gin-clear water, but come January they brace for brutal winds and horizontal rain, the honeymooners keep away, and tourist beaches become a playground for local dogs, bare feet and paw prints side by side in the sand.
Compared to the interior of Canada, winter in Bermuda will always feel positively tropical. And so, Sandi, who had settled in Calgary and who was working long hours, thought a frisky fourteen-month-old Cleo would love the warm weather and constant attention a visit to “Aunt” Sonja in Bermuda would bring.
Cleo had already become the consummate international jet-setter. Her impeccable manners and placid demeanor wooed even the most militant of flight attendants and caused protracted deplaning for anyone seated behind her. And it was obvious she relished all the time she could get with Sonja’s male Min Pin, Odin. The two dogs bonded with the familiarity of cousins thrilled to have one another at family gatherings, prowling the backyard together, chasing lizards, mocked by the calls of kiskadees, romping in the lush Bermuda grass as palm fronds whispered overhead. Sonja loved to watch themengage, politely taking their turns dominating and submitting, smiling as they played out their mouthy bravado and then, exhausted, cherishing each other’s company as they slept it off. And like an anxious mother hovering by the sandbox, daughter Sonja always felt the weight of her responsibility for her canine guest’s safety. Not only did she know how much Cleo meant to her mother, she sensed that this creature supplied all the things that were missing in their own mother—daughter relationship. Sonja wasn’t jealous or resentful, and this had never been discussed, but she only had to hear her mother talk about Cleo to know an emotional void had been filled by a surrogate. To some extent it was a relief knowing her mom had found a vessel for her emotional outpourings. But the pleasure of sharing Cleo for a few weeks was always offset by a degree of worry, not least because of the poor dog’s eventful medical history in such a short amount of living.
It started back in Canada when Cleo was only five months old. Already a gifted canine socialite, Miss Popularity had been unable to contain herself when she and Sandi pulled into their familiar doggy day-care parking lot. As unpredictable as it is common, a classic scenario unfolded.
Sandi was sliding out of the car with Cleo cradled in her arms when another dog trotted past. For whatever reason—new kid in school, the exciting
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