walk, all my fears for Patch’s mental well-being were allayed. I had watched him chase rabbits, explore a copse, leap over wooden stiles, and trot along, smiling, always slightly in the lead, his huge tail stretched out, down and low, bouncing with the beat of our footfalls. Neither my father nor I knew a thing about the science of animal behavior, but instinctively we both knew this was a happy dog.
When it came to the rest of Patch’s well-being, there wasn’t much to notice because there wasn’t much that went wrong. These days, I often chat with dog owners who remember canine companions ofyesteryear who similarly never got sick. They fondly recall a less complicated bygone era, governed by fewer conventions, when dogs knew how to be dogs, as though ailments and disease are disruptive innovations, like TV, rock ’n’ roll, or the Internet. I have no proof that dogs were generally healthier a generation or two ago, but if they were, then Patch’s good health was emblematic. Still, from time to time, we did take him to see a veterinarian and on one memorable occasion when I was eleven or twelve I asked if I could join Patch and my father for a scheduled annual checkup. Based on this experience, it is remarkable I would ever show any interest in working with animals again.
“Arthur suggested we get there early, slightly before afternoon clinics begin,” said Dad. “That way we should get seen straight away.”
I studied the man gripping the steering wheel as though our car had no brakes. Dad was a wreck, all clenched jaw muscles and white knuckles and a sweaty Nixonesque upper lip. Though he had kicked his cigarette habit years earlier I could still tell when a nicotine craving was rippling through his body and making him wide-eyed and jumpy, as if he were fantasizing about lighting up and exhaling his mounting anxiety on a long and curly puff of smoke.
“Who’s Arthur?” I asked.
“Arthur Stone, the practice’s office manager. He’s the gentleman who organizes the veterinarians and schedules the appointments and the farm calls. Coordinates the day-to-day running of the business. He’s always been good to us. Understands how our Patch dislikes these visits. He tries to make them as painless as possible.”
I didn’t know whether our dog was feeding off Dad’s negative vibe or had tuned in to the route he was driving, his innate canine GPS screaming, “Please don’t turn left in two hundred yards because then I really do know where you’re taking me!” but Patch stood on the backseat, refusing to lie down and panting excessively.He was a picture of apprehension and if my father had been a German shepherd, at that moment the two of them would have looked identical.
As we pulled into the small parking lot we both noted the presence of two other cars. I almost said something sarcastic about Arthur Stone being such a nice guy he was inviting lots of other anxious pet owners to turn up early, but kept my mouth shut as Dad took a deep breath, attached a leash to Patch’s collar, and headed for the front door.
I trotted along behind, like a reporter assigned to a combat unit in a war zone, trying to keep out of the way, maintaining a safe distance but still drawn to the action. I wasn’t even inside the building when the first explosive went off. It started with the door swinging wide open on its hinges and Patch barreling into the waiting room, barking orders, instigating a pitched verbal battle with a defensive West Highland white terrier. I had time to see Patch lunging forward, the leash as taut as a bowstring, his front legs off the ground. Dad shouted over the din, apologizing to the Westie’s owner, apologizing to a woman with a cat carrier on her lap, apologizing to Mr. Stone, finally getting the message that it might be best if Patch waited in the car rather than the waiting room.
I was still a ways off from perfecting a cocky adolescent sneer and pushing my luck with “That went well,”
When it came to the rest of Patch’s well-being, there wasn’t much to notice because there wasn’t much that went wrong. These days, I often chat with dog owners who remember canine companions ofyesteryear who similarly never got sick. They fondly recall a less complicated bygone era, governed by fewer conventions, when dogs knew how to be dogs, as though ailments and disease are disruptive innovations, like TV, rock ’n’ roll, or the Internet. I have no proof that dogs were generally healthier a generation or two ago, but if they were, then Patch’s good health was emblematic. Still, from time to time, we did take him to see a veterinarian and on one memorable occasion when I was eleven or twelve I asked if I could join Patch and my father for a scheduled annual checkup. Based on this experience, it is remarkable I would ever show any interest in working with animals again.
“Arthur suggested we get there early, slightly before afternoon clinics begin,” said Dad. “That way we should get seen straight away.”
I studied the man gripping the steering wheel as though our car had no brakes. Dad was a wreck, all clenched jaw muscles and white knuckles and a sweaty Nixonesque upper lip. Though he had kicked his cigarette habit years earlier I could still tell when a nicotine craving was rippling through his body and making him wide-eyed and jumpy, as if he were fantasizing about lighting up and exhaling his mounting anxiety on a long and curly puff of smoke.
“Who’s Arthur?” I asked.
“Arthur Stone, the practice’s office manager. He’s the gentleman who organizes the veterinarians and schedules the appointments and the farm calls. Coordinates the day-to-day running of the business. He’s always been good to us. Understands how our Patch dislikes these visits. He tries to make them as painless as possible.”
I didn’t know whether our dog was feeding off Dad’s negative vibe or had tuned in to the route he was driving, his innate canine GPS screaming, “Please don’t turn left in two hundred yards because then I really do know where you’re taking me!” but Patch stood on the backseat, refusing to lie down and panting excessively.He was a picture of apprehension and if my father had been a German shepherd, at that moment the two of them would have looked identical.
As we pulled into the small parking lot we both noted the presence of two other cars. I almost said something sarcastic about Arthur Stone being such a nice guy he was inviting lots of other anxious pet owners to turn up early, but kept my mouth shut as Dad took a deep breath, attached a leash to Patch’s collar, and headed for the front door.
I trotted along behind, like a reporter assigned to a combat unit in a war zone, trying to keep out of the way, maintaining a safe distance but still drawn to the action. I wasn’t even inside the building when the first explosive went off. It started with the door swinging wide open on its hinges and Patch barreling into the waiting room, barking orders, instigating a pitched verbal battle with a defensive West Highland white terrier. I had time to see Patch lunging forward, the leash as taut as a bowstring, his front legs off the ground. Dad shouted over the din, apologizing to the Westie’s owner, apologizing to a woman with a cat carrier on her lap, apologizing to Mr. Stone, finally getting the message that it might be best if Patch waited in the car rather than the waiting room.
I was still a ways off from perfecting a cocky adolescent sneer and pushing my luck with “That went well,”
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