shots. It’s very irresponsible not to see that your dog is properly licensed and
vaccinated.”
“I know,” Travis said miserably. “I know.”
“What’s wrong with Einstein?” Nora said.
And she thought-hoped-prayed: It’s not as serious as it seems.
Lightly stroking the retriever, Keene said, “He’s got distemper.”
Einstein had been moved to a corner of the surgery, where he lay on a thick,
dog-size foam mattress that was protected by a zippered plastic coverlet. To
prevent him from moving around—if at any time he had the strength to move—he was
tethered on a short leash to a ringbolt in the wall.
Dr. Keene had given the retriever an injection. “Antibiotics,” he explained. “No
antibiotics are effective against distemper, but they’re indicated to avoid
secondary bacteriological infections.”
He had also inserted a needle in one of the dog’s leg veins and had hooked him
to an IV drip to counteract dehydration.
When the vet tried to put a muzzle on Einstein, both Nora and Travis objected
strenuously.
“It’s not because I’m afraid he’ll bite,” Dr. Keene explained. “It’s for his own
protection, to prevent him from chewing at the needle. If he has the strength,
he’ll do what dogs always do to a wound—lick and bite at the source of the
irritation.”
“Not this dog,” Travis said. “This dog’s different.” He pushed past Keene and
removed the device that bound Einstein’s jaws together.
The vet started to protest, then thought better of it. “All right. For now. He’s
too weak now, anyway.”
Still trying to deny the awful truth, Nora said, “But how could it be so
serious? He showed only the mildest symptoms, and even those went away over a
couple of days.”
“Half the dogs who get distemper never show any symptoms at all,” the vet said
as he returned a bottle of antibiotics to one of the glass-fronted cabinets and
tossed a disposable syringe in a waste can. “Others have only a mild illness,
symptoms come and go from one day to the next. Some, like Einstein, get very
ill. It can be a gradually worsening illness, or it can change suddenly from
mild symptoms to . . . this. But there is a bright side here.”
Travis was crouched beside Einstein, where the dog could see him without lifting
his head or rolling his eyes, and could therefore feel attended, watched over,
loved. When he heard Keene mention a bright side, Travis looked up eagerly.
“What bright side? What do you mean?”
“The dog’s condition, before it contracts distemper, frequently determines the
course of the disease. The illness is most acute in animals that are ill-kept
and poorly nourished. It’s clear to me that Einstein was given good care.”
Travis said, “We tried to feed him well, to make sure he got plenty of
exercise.”
“He was bathed and groomed almost too often,” Nora added.
Smiling, nodding approval, Dr. Keene said, “Then we have an edge. We have real
hope.”
Nora looked at Travis, and he could meet her eyes only briefly before he had to
look away, down at Einstein. It was left to her to ask the dreaded question:
“Doctor, he’s going to be all right, isn’t he? He won’t—he won’t die, will he?”
Apparently, James Keene was aware that his naturally glum face and drooping eyes
presented, merely in repose, an expression that did little to inspire
confidence. He cultivated a warm smile, a soft yet confident tone of voice, and
an almost grandfatherly manner that, although perhaps calculated, seemed genuine
and helped balance the perpetual gloom God had seen fit to visit upon his
countenance.
He came to Nora, put his hands on her shoulders. “My dear, you love this dog
like a baby, don’t you?”
She bit her lip and nodded.
“Then have faith. Have faith in God, who watches over sparrows, so they say, and
have a little faith in me, too. Believe it or not, I’m pretty good at what I do,
and I deserve your faith.”
“I believe you are good,” she told him.
Still squatting beside Einstein, Travis said thickly, “But the chances. What’re
the chances? Tell us straight?”
Letting go of Nora, turning to Travis, Keene said, “Well, the discharge from his