Read Online The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel by Nick Trout - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nick Trout
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my opinion, information about a case should be concise, pertinent, detailed and, best of all, written.”
Lewis shakes his head. “Let me tell you something—animal health care has always been about choice. It used to be about choosing which veterinarian best fit your personality. Back in the day, when Doc Cobb and I competed for business, it wasn’t enough to be a decent clinician. You had to connect with the client. You had to connect with the patient. You had to make them want to see you again. These days there’s another ugly dynamic in the mix—money. Take Healthy Paws, the competition across the valley in Patton—they care more about making money than they do about making their patients better. They’ve totally lost sight of the honor and altruism of our profession. Only the other day they had an ad in the paper offering half price spays on Wednesday and pay for two vaccines, get one free. It’s tacky, it’s demeaning, but some of your customers will buy into it. Listen to me, Cyrus, to win them over, they’re going to have to find something about you that they really, really like.”
I don’t know what to say. How can I tell Lewis I’m all about making money as well? How do I let him know the rival practice he despises will soon be the new owners of Bedside Manor? And let’s not forget, I chose to be a pathologist because I prefer to work in silence and alone. Which is not to say I’m antisocial. I want to make friends. I’m just not very good at it. Boarding school may have been great for my education but it stunted my communication skills. I was a shy Yankee boy dropped in the heart of Dixie. When kids think you sound funny, you keep your mouth shut. It’s a lot less painful to become a loner.
“Here’s your map. His name’s Harry Carp. His dog’s called Clint.”
I take the scrap of paper and work out in my head roughly where I’m going.
“He’s good for the price of the house call?” I ask.
Lewis’s sharp intake of breath is not what I want to hear.
“Harry will pay. His checks don’t bounce. Takes his time writing them is all.”
Great, more bad debt. “Hope he won’t mind if I ask for cash up front,” I say.
Lewis’s pout says, “Come on, have a heart,” but his expression slowly twists into a smile. “Think of this as part of your education, an investment in acquiring the type of skills that will pay big dividends down the line. Pet owners like sharing their concerns with fellow animal lovers. This has nothing to do with you as an individual. Here’s an opportunity to work on your … rapport.”
Unfortunately they don’t teach “rapport” in vet school, and if they did, I suspect it wouldn’t have been an easy A for me.
“You should take Doc Cobb’s old truck.”
“That dilapidated Silverado out back?” I ask.
“Yep,” says Lewis. “Though bear in mind it does have a minor problem.”
I lower my chin, let my eyes roll up to meet his, fearing the modifier minor .
“No reverse.”
“What?”
“Be careful how you park. Make sure you can drive straight out. Harry’s driveway has a big turnaround. You’ll be fine.”
“Maybe it’d be better if you go instead?”
Lewis consults his wristwatch, does that chewing thing with his lower lip.
“I’ve got an appointment,” he says. “A haircut, in twenty minutes.”
He makes this information sound serious.
“There’s a barbershop in town?”
Lewis grabs his coat from behind the counter. “No, of course not,” he says. “Mrs. Lewis has been cutting my hair on the first Tuesday of every month since we got married. Take my bag of tricks, okay?”
He turns to leave but spins back around to face me. “Strive for a friendly chat, not an interrogation. Try to make more eye contact and stop fidgeting so much with your hands. Acting distant and detached might suit you, but it can come across as disinterested. And when that happens, mark my words, clients will go elsewhere.”
Warning delivered, he
Lewis shakes his head. “Let me tell you something—animal health care has always been about choice. It used to be about choosing which veterinarian best fit your personality. Back in the day, when Doc Cobb and I competed for business, it wasn’t enough to be a decent clinician. You had to connect with the client. You had to connect with the patient. You had to make them want to see you again. These days there’s another ugly dynamic in the mix—money. Take Healthy Paws, the competition across the valley in Patton—they care more about making money than they do about making their patients better. They’ve totally lost sight of the honor and altruism of our profession. Only the other day they had an ad in the paper offering half price spays on Wednesday and pay for two vaccines, get one free. It’s tacky, it’s demeaning, but some of your customers will buy into it. Listen to me, Cyrus, to win them over, they’re going to have to find something about you that they really, really like.”
I don’t know what to say. How can I tell Lewis I’m all about making money as well? How do I let him know the rival practice he despises will soon be the new owners of Bedside Manor? And let’s not forget, I chose to be a pathologist because I prefer to work in silence and alone. Which is not to say I’m antisocial. I want to make friends. I’m just not very good at it. Boarding school may have been great for my education but it stunted my communication skills. I was a shy Yankee boy dropped in the heart of Dixie. When kids think you sound funny, you keep your mouth shut. It’s a lot less painful to become a loner.
“Here’s your map. His name’s Harry Carp. His dog’s called Clint.”
I take the scrap of paper and work out in my head roughly where I’m going.
“He’s good for the price of the house call?” I ask.
Lewis’s sharp intake of breath is not what I want to hear.
“Harry will pay. His checks don’t bounce. Takes his time writing them is all.”
Great, more bad debt. “Hope he won’t mind if I ask for cash up front,” I say.
Lewis’s pout says, “Come on, have a heart,” but his expression slowly twists into a smile. “Think of this as part of your education, an investment in acquiring the type of skills that will pay big dividends down the line. Pet owners like sharing their concerns with fellow animal lovers. This has nothing to do with you as an individual. Here’s an opportunity to work on your … rapport.”
Unfortunately they don’t teach “rapport” in vet school, and if they did, I suspect it wouldn’t have been an easy A for me.
“You should take Doc Cobb’s old truck.”
“That dilapidated Silverado out back?” I ask.
“Yep,” says Lewis. “Though bear in mind it does have a minor problem.”
I lower my chin, let my eyes roll up to meet his, fearing the modifier minor .
“No reverse.”
“What?”
“Be careful how you park. Make sure you can drive straight out. Harry’s driveway has a big turnaround. You’ll be fine.”
“Maybe it’d be better if you go instead?”
Lewis consults his wristwatch, does that chewing thing with his lower lip.
“I’ve got an appointment,” he says. “A haircut, in twenty minutes.”
He makes this information sound serious.
“There’s a barbershop in town?”
Lewis grabs his coat from behind the counter. “No, of course not,” he says. “Mrs. Lewis has been cutting my hair on the first Tuesday of every month since we got married. Take my bag of tricks, okay?”
He turns to leave but spins back around to face me. “Strive for a friendly chat, not an interrogation. Try to make more eye contact and stop fidgeting so much with your hands. Acting distant and detached might suit you, but it can come across as disinterested. And when that happens, mark my words, clients will go elsewhere.”
Warning delivered, he
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