Read Online The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel by Nick Trout - Free Book Online
Authors: Nick Trout
Ads: Link
you to go on a house call.”
“Whoa there, I’m not ready to fly solo. At least here I’ve got you to back me up and a library of out-of-date textbooks. If my experience with Ethel Silverman is anything to go by, I’ve underestimated how different this work is from what I’m used to.”
Lewis meets my eyes. “Rubbish. It’s one more sick animal in search of a cure.”
“Yeah, but you and I are used to looking at the same disease from a completely different perspective.”
“I’m not with you,” he says.
I hesitate. What’s the best way to explain? “See, it may be the same disease, but you’re used to being at one end, and I’m used to being at the other. You’re the clinician, the hands-on guy, caught up with the client and the animal in the now. You’re trying to define the disease and stop it in its tracks. As a pathologist, if I’m involved in a case, more often than not, it’s already too late.”
Lewis frowns. “I don’t agree. Same disease, same treasure hunt. Whether you’re a pathologist looking down a microscope or a clinician listening to a chest, you’re hunting for clues that will yield the exact same prize—a diagnosis.”
“But when you’re a pathologist, time is on your side. Think about it, it’s not as though the outcome can get any worse. A corpse rarely requires a prognosis.”
“You’re still searching for clues about a particular disease, working backward is all.”
“Yeah, but in a treasure hunt you need to follow the clues in a logical sequence, and sometimes my mind is like a frog on speed, it jumps all over the place.”
Lewis scoffs. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re a smart man. You’re just rusty.”
“No, I’m not, I wish it were that simple. In my final year of veterinary school I was assigned a dachshund with a digestive disorder. Every morning, before rounds, I’d find a colossal turd sitting in the dog’s cage, almost as big as the dog itself. It made no sense. I became obsessed, trying to figure out how this tiny dog could possibly generate such a humongous stool.”
“What was the dog’s problem?”
“The dog’s problem was me. The joker in our group eventually confessed to transplanting a fresh turd from his patient to my dachshund.”
“And what kind of a dog was his patient?”
My cheeks grow warm. “Great Dane. As soon as I knew, it seemed so obvious.”
“You’re simply too trusting.”
I shake my head. “I have a weakness for the obscure diagnosis. Can’t help it. My training has me attentive to the smallest details. General practitioners don’t need my help nailing down the easy stuff . They need me to unmask the weird and the wonderful. In my world a vomiting dog puts me on high alert for gastric ulcers, stomach cancer, Helicobacter , Zollinger-Ellison syndrome, and a whole lot more. I’m never going to see simple food poisoning or motion sickness, or likes to lick frogs, or needs to be wormed.”
“Hey, you play to your strengths.” He pauses. “I’m told your mother was the same way,” he says in a softer voice, as though he knows he’s taking a risk broaching the subject.
I take in Bobby Cobb’s best friend. There’s not a hint of retribution or malice in the old man’s eyes. Quite the opposite in fact. It’s like he’s pleading, begging me to clear the air. I can only imagine what Cobb must have told him about his son. For that matter, how much did Cobb share with the devoted pet owners of Eden Falls?
“I wanted to be a pathologist, like her,” I say. “She always taught me to relish order, logic, and the challenge of working a case from back to front, long before I discovered the upside of not being face-to-face with the person who loves a sick animal.”
Lewis looks into me, and I notice his eyes smile before his lips.
“You get used to it. You do. Give it time.”
“There’s a lot less pressure when a disease has had its fun. Everything is in the past tense. It’s like reading a
“Whoa there, I’m not ready to fly solo. At least here I’ve got you to back me up and a library of out-of-date textbooks. If my experience with Ethel Silverman is anything to go by, I’ve underestimated how different this work is from what I’m used to.”
Lewis meets my eyes. “Rubbish. It’s one more sick animal in search of a cure.”
“Yeah, but you and I are used to looking at the same disease from a completely different perspective.”
“I’m not with you,” he says.
I hesitate. What’s the best way to explain? “See, it may be the same disease, but you’re used to being at one end, and I’m used to being at the other. You’re the clinician, the hands-on guy, caught up with the client and the animal in the now. You’re trying to define the disease and stop it in its tracks. As a pathologist, if I’m involved in a case, more often than not, it’s already too late.”
Lewis frowns. “I don’t agree. Same disease, same treasure hunt. Whether you’re a pathologist looking down a microscope or a clinician listening to a chest, you’re hunting for clues that will yield the exact same prize—a diagnosis.”
“But when you’re a pathologist, time is on your side. Think about it, it’s not as though the outcome can get any worse. A corpse rarely requires a prognosis.”
“You’re still searching for clues about a particular disease, working backward is all.”
“Yeah, but in a treasure hunt you need to follow the clues in a logical sequence, and sometimes my mind is like a frog on speed, it jumps all over the place.”
Lewis scoffs. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re a smart man. You’re just rusty.”
“No, I’m not, I wish it were that simple. In my final year of veterinary school I was assigned a dachshund with a digestive disorder. Every morning, before rounds, I’d find a colossal turd sitting in the dog’s cage, almost as big as the dog itself. It made no sense. I became obsessed, trying to figure out how this tiny dog could possibly generate such a humongous stool.”
“What was the dog’s problem?”
“The dog’s problem was me. The joker in our group eventually confessed to transplanting a fresh turd from his patient to my dachshund.”
“And what kind of a dog was his patient?”
My cheeks grow warm. “Great Dane. As soon as I knew, it seemed so obvious.”
“You’re simply too trusting.”
I shake my head. “I have a weakness for the obscure diagnosis. Can’t help it. My training has me attentive to the smallest details. General practitioners don’t need my help nailing down the easy stuff . They need me to unmask the weird and the wonderful. In my world a vomiting dog puts me on high alert for gastric ulcers, stomach cancer, Helicobacter , Zollinger-Ellison syndrome, and a whole lot more. I’m never going to see simple food poisoning or motion sickness, or likes to lick frogs, or needs to be wormed.”
“Hey, you play to your strengths.” He pauses. “I’m told your mother was the same way,” he says in a softer voice, as though he knows he’s taking a risk broaching the subject.
I take in Bobby Cobb’s best friend. There’s not a hint of retribution or malice in the old man’s eyes. Quite the opposite in fact. It’s like he’s pleading, begging me to clear the air. I can only imagine what Cobb must have told him about his son. For that matter, how much did Cobb share with the devoted pet owners of Eden Falls?
“I wanted to be a pathologist, like her,” I say. “She always taught me to relish order, logic, and the challenge of working a case from back to front, long before I discovered the upside of not being face-to-face with the person who loves a sick animal.”
Lewis looks into me, and I notice his eyes smile before his lips.
“You get used to it. You do. Give it time.”
“There’s a lot less pressure when a disease has had its fun. Everything is in the past tense. It’s like reading a
Similar Books
