“Well,” she said, “the law says you have to try to return him. You could bring him in and leave him with us, but we’re pretty crowded and I can’t honestly tell you he’ll get anything more than basic care.”
“What if you have him and no one claims him?”
“Well. .. you know.”
“What’re my alternatives?”
“You could put an ad in the paper-‘founds’ are sometimes free. You might also want to take him to a vet-make sure he’s not carrying anything that could cause you problems.”
I thanked her, called the newspaper, and placed the ad. Then I pulled out the Yellow Pages and looked under veterinarians. There was an animal hospital on Sepulveda near Olympic that advertised “walk-ins and emergencies.”
I let the the dog sleep for an hour, then took him for another ride.
The clinic was a milky blue, cement-block building set between a wrought iron foundry and a discount clothing barn. The traffic on Sepulveda looked angry, so I carried my guest to the front door, upping the weight estimate to thirty pounds.
The waiting room was empty except for an old man wearing a golf cap, comforting a giant white German shepherd. The dog was prone on the black linoleum floor, weeping and trembling from fright. The man kept saying, “It’s okay, Rexie.”
I tapped on a frosted glass window and re istered, using my 9 name because I didn’t know the dog’s. Rex was summoned five minutes later, then a college-age girl opened the door and called out, “Alex?”
The bulldog was stretched on the floor, sleeping and snoring. I picked him up and carried him in. He opened one eye but stayed limp.
“What’s the matter with Alex, today?” said the girl.
“Long story,” I said and followed her to a small exam room outfitted with lots of surgical steel. The disinfectant smell reminded hine of traumas gone by, but the dog stayed calm.
The vet arrived soon after-a young, crewcut, Asian man in a blue smock, smiling and drying his hands with a paper towel.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Uno-ah, a Frenchie, don’t see too many of those.”
“A what?”
He one-handed the towel into a waste bin. “A French bulldog.” Oh.”
He looked at me. “You don’t know what he is?”
“I found him.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, that’s a pretty rare dog you’ve got theresomeone’ll claim him.” He petted the dog. “These little guys are pretty expensive, and this one looks like a good specimen.” He lifted his flews.
“Well cared for, too-these teeth have been scaled pretty recently and his ears are clean-these upright ears can be receptacles for all kinds of stuff. ..
anyway, what seems to be your problem with him?”
“Apart from a fear of water, nothing,” I said. “I just wanted him checked out.”
“Fear of water? How so?”
I recounted the dog’s avoidance of the pond.
“Interesting,” said the vet. “Probably means he’s been perimeter trained for his own safety. Bulldog pups can drown pretty easily-real heavy boned, so they sink like rocks. On top of that, they have no nose to speak of, so they have trouble getting their head clear.
Another patient of mine lost a couple of English bull babies that way.
So this guy’s actually being smart by shying away.”
“He’s housebroken and he heels, too,” I said.
The vet smiled and I realized something very close to owner’s pride had crept into my voice.
“Why don’t you put him up here on the table and let’s see what else he can do.”
The dog was probed, vaccinated, and given a clean bill of health.
“Someone definitely took good care of him,” said Uno. “The basic thing to watch out for is heatstroke, specially now, when the temperature is rising.
These brachycephalic dogs are really prone to it, so keep him out of the heat.”
He handed me some brochures on basic dog care, reiterated the heat danger, and said, “That’s about it. Good luck finding the owner.”
“Any suggestions along those lines?”
“Put an ad in the paper, or if there’s a local Frenchie club, you could try getting in touch with them.”
“Do you have a list of club addresses?”