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I just know he’s old, and that there is something definitely wrong with this dog.
He’s been eating since I took him in. I’ve managed to find time to walk him twice a day, once early, once late, though not at anything resembling a high speed. Or even exercise. When I’m in court, I have neighbors come by to let him out, make sure he has fresh water until I get home.
Occasionally I find myself wondering who’s going to be around longer, me or the dog.
My money is actually on him, but it’s a fluid situation.
“His kidneys are failing,” Dr. Ben says in his office after he’s spent over an hour examining Rip.
“Well, that doesn’t sound good.”
“No wonder you’re such a crack investigator. You don’t miss a trick.”
I’ve known him a long time, like him a lot, though never in the way he’s made it clear that he likes me. And would like me to like him. He’s in his early forties, tall, skinny, a long-distance runner. Hair still dark brown. Nice, even, year-round tan despite the East End winters. Divorced. Good man, good doctor. Gentle soul. We went out on a few dates a few years ago. But they always stopped where I should have stopped the damn dog, which means at the door.
“Is he going to die?”
“Well, Jane,” Dr. Ben Kalinsky says, “pretty sure we’re all going to do that eventually.”
“Vet humor. Can’t get enough of it.”
“Don’t forget to tip the vet techs.”
“Is there anything you can do for him?”
“Sure,” he says. “He’s not in terrible shape, all things considered. I make him to be about eight years old, or thereabouts. Not ancient for a Lab. But getting up there, definitely. I would recommend a high-quality diet and subcutaneous fluid injections a few times a week at least to start, more often as the disease progresses. You can easily learn how to do the injections yourself, or you can bring him by for us to do them here. Some meds might help, too, if other symptoms develop, such as vomiting or trouble urinating or high blood pressure. The fluids alone will keep him around for a while. I frankly think he’s got a lot of life left in him.”
Wish I could say the same, Doc.
“It’s all about quality of life,” he continues.
“Isn’t it, though.”
“I’m going to take a leap of faith that you’ve decided to keep him,” Dr. Ben Kalinsky says.
He smiles now. It’s always been the same with him, whether we run into each other at Jack’s Coffee or occasionally at Jimmy Cunniff’s bar, or when I’ve braved a long run with him over the years. He makes you feel as if you’re the most important person he’ll talk to all day. Maybe all week.
“It’s more like the dog’s decided to keep me.”
“I’m glad,” he says. “If he ended up at a shelter, I can’t imagine anybody adopting him at the age he is, and in the shape he’s in.”
I smile back at him. “Seriously? I really can’t decide whether I rescued him or he rescued me.”
“Either way,” he says. “If you’d dropped him off at the shelter, they wouldn’t have waited very long before putting him down.”
“They’ll probably do the same with me one of these days.”
He frowns. “There’s an odd reference point, counselor.”
“Blame it on the trial,” I say. “I’m probably the one who needs meds right now. You got anything that will make me smarter?”
“I’ve never seen that to be an issue with you.” He nods at me. “May I ask a legal question?”
I smile again. It’s always been easy smiling at Ben Kalinsky. I’m trying to remember just why I never let him get anywhere with me.
“I’ll have to bill you for the whole hour.”
“Is there a way for me to root for my friend Jane to get an acquittal, but not Rob Jacobson?”
