eyes and nose isn’t as thick as it can get. Not nearly. No pus blisters on the
abdomen. You say he’s vomited, but you’ve seen no diarrhea?”
“No. Just vomiting,” Travis said.
“His fever’s high but not dangerously so. Has he been slobbering excessively?”
“No,” Nora said.
“Fits of head-shaking and chewing on air, sort of as if he had a bad taste in
his mouth?”
“No,” Travis and Nora said simultaneously.
“Have you seen him run in circles or fall down without reason? Have you seen him
lie on his side and kick violently, as if he were running? Aimless wandering
around a room, bumping into walls, jerking and twitching—anything like that?”
“No, no,” Travis said.
And Nora said. “My God, could he get like that?”
“If he goes into second-stage distemper, yes,” Keene said. “Then there’s brain
involvement. Epileptic-like seizures. Encephalitis.”
Travis came to his feet in a sudden lurch. He staggered toward Keene, then
stopped, swaying. His face was pale. His eyes filled with a terrible fear.
“Brain involvement? If he recovered, would there be . . . brain damage?”
An oily nausea rippled in Nora. She thought of Einstein with brain damage—as
intelligent as a man, intelligent enough to remember that he had once been
special, and to know that something had been lost, and to know that he was now
living in a dullness, a grayness, that his life was somehow less than what it
had once been. Sick and dizzy with fear, she had to lean against the examination
table.
Keene said, “Most dogs in second-stage distemper don’t survive. But if he made
it, there would, of course, be some brain damage. Nothing that would require he
be put to sleep. He might have lifelong chorea, for instance, which is
involuntary jerking or twitching, rather like palsy, and often limited to the
head. But he could be relatively happy with that, lead a pain-free existence,
and he could still be a fine pet.”
Travis almost shouted at the vet: “To hell with whether he’d make a fine pet or
not. I’m not concerned about physical effects of the brain damage. What about
his mind?”
“Well he’d recognize his masters,” the doctor said. “He’d know you and remain
affectionate towards you. No problem there. He might sleep a lot. He might have
periods of listlessness. But he’d almost certainly remain housebroken. He
wouldn’t forget that training—”
Shaking, Travis said, “I don’t give a damn if he pisses all over the house as
long as he can still think!”
“Think?” Dr. Keene said, clearly perplexed. “Well . . . what do you mean
exactly? He is a dog, after all.”
The vet had accepted their anxious, grief-racked behavior as within the
parameters of normal pet-owner reactions in a case like this. But now, at last,
he began to look at them strangely.
Partly to change the subject and dampen the vet’s suspicion, partly because she
simply had to know the answer, Nora said, “All right, but is Einstein in
second-stage distemper?”
Keene said, “From what I’ve seen so far, he’s still in the first stage. And now
that treatment has begun, if we don’t see any of the more violent symptoms
during the next twenty-four hours, I think we have a good chance of keeping him
in first stage and rolling it back.”
“And there’s no brain involvement in first stage?” Travis asked with an urgency
that again caused Keene to furrow his brow.
“No. Not in first stage.”
“And if he stays in first stage,” Nora said, “he won’t die?”
In his softest voice and most comforting manner, James Keene said, “Well, now,
the chances are very high that he’d survive just first-stage distemper— and
without any aftereffects. I want you to realize that his chances of recovery are
quite high. But at the same time, I don’t want to give you false hope. That’d be
cruel. Even if the disease proceeds no further than first stage . . . Einstein
could die. The percentages are on the side of life, but death is possible.”
Nora was crying again. She thought she had gotten a grip on herself. She thought
she was ready to be strong. But now she was crying. She went to