Mickey is in a huff over his malpractice insurance. He’s scrutinizing the bill. “People die. It’s the natural order of things. I’m only a doctor not God. I can’t save everyone.”
“This is true,” I say, parking the car at the side of the cement building. “About you not being God.”
He waves the papers threatening to bury it all in the pet cemetery. "They must have one right?"
"I've come here looking for a dog. Can you turn it down a notch?"
We get out of the car and approach the shelter. A boy who seems underage for this job meets us at the door, then takes us through a dank building where barking dogs with death in their eyes stare out of cages.
“Jack, why not go for a purebred?” Mickey is saying.
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
I’m starting to dislike Mickey’s advice. This is another shining example. It’s a bloody miracle we can afford malpractice insurance— what with all the hospital borne infections. Everything flips me out these days. A harsh realization. My wife left during the summer and now it’s winter.
“How about that one?” Mickey's pointing at a German Shepherd mix. The dog looks gaunt and miserable. Listless. Head hanging down. I kneel in front of the cage. “Is this one a male? Neutered?” I ask the boy.
“That’s Tonto. Let’s see.” He reads off a card on the cage. “Six years old and neutered it says right here. You wanna see?”
Somebody named this poor wretch Tonto. A name like that, how would you stand a chance?
“Tonto,” I say softly. The dog’s ears perk up. “Is he friendly? House trained?”
“Tonto is a good dog. Do you want me to open the cage so you can pet him?”
“Could be risky.” Mickey is zipping his jacket up to the neck.
“Open the door,” I tell the boy.
He springs a latch, and Tonto stands on shaky legs. “Has he been abused?”
“Most of them. They had bad owners who beat them or pitched them into the woods. Mister, you don’t end up here from the good lifestyle.”
“Kid don’t be snide,” Mickey is saying.
Quickly the boy steps back. Thinner than I first realized. He could be an abuse victim, too. Any one of us. Anyone could get a bad break from the beginning.
“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it," the boy says.
"Tonto it’s OK,” he tells the dog.
I continue to kneel and wait. Eventually the dog makes his way out of the cage though not too near us.
“You can count his ribs,” I say. “Poor beast has been nearly starved to death.”
“You want him?” says the boy.
I stand very slowly so I don’t freak the dog.
“Yeah. Leash him and we’ll take him to the car.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a check, five hundred endorsed over to the shelter. When I hand it to the boy he whistles. I pull a fifty from my cash wad. “You buy something you want,” I tell him.
“Is this real money?”
I shake my head.
Quickly the boy leashes the dog to something cloth and cheap looking. “You’ll be happy now, Tonto,” he says looking at me.
“You knew in advance,” Mickey is saying. “You knew you were going home with some mutt. What a soft touch you are, Jack. Sucker bait.”
“I only knew one thing. I wasn’t going home alone this time.”
Getting the dog into the car is another matter. Fearful, he backs off each time I pat the seat. “Come on, Tonto, jump right up here.”
Mickey and the boy add their two cents. The dog seems frozen to the cold ground. He won’t budge.
“We need some meat,” Mickey tells the boy. “Go inside and bring some meat.” The boy nods and disappears around the building.
“Well, Mickey, I’m impressed. By your humanity as well as your knowledge of dogs and
their feeding habits.”
I watch the cowed animal. Kneeling in front of him again, putting out my hand
palm up. “Fella, wouldn’t you like to come live with me?”
His nostrils flare. If ever a creature could be fearful, starving, hopeful, resistant and
more— this is what we’ve got here.
“You’ll get very good steak bones if you go and live with Dr. Jack,” Mickey tells the dog.
The boy appears carrying a package of brown paper. “It’s baloney. Don’t tell, OK?”
“Son, you are not to worry.” I take the package keeping my eyes tight on the dog. It licks its chops but still doesn’t move. I open the paper fully, placing it on the ground, stepping back. The dog wobbles toward it.
“This is pathetic,” Mickey’s saying, “I almost can’t take it.”
He devours the meat in under two seconds. Looking up for more.
“More meat at home, Tonto.” I stand up. “C’mon. Let’s go home.”
He waits. The dog is waiting me out. Taking a few steps toward me he licks the hand that held the baloney. He’s tied the deal.
“Ah, jeez,” says Mickey.
“Time to lift him in.”
The three of us manage to get him onto the back seat. He sniffs cautiously before lying down.
The boy reaches in patting the dog’s head. “Bye, Tonto.”
“The worst is over for him,” I tell the boy. “Now you take care of yourself, ya hear?”
END
Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres. Her most recent book, a Novel titled Hair Of A Fallen Angel, came out in the fall from Spuyten Duyvil Books, NYC. Tepper has also written 7 stage plays. Her third play titled EVA & ADAMO will present at The Tank, NYC, early fall. www.susantepper.com
