Ever by My Side by Nick Trout

suffocate.
    When I woke up I was back in my hospital bed, a string of drool hanging from the corner of my mouth, a dull muscular ache on the right side of my belly. In the following week I made two useful discoveries that would forever heighten my sympathy toward fellow surgical patients, be they human, feline, or canine. First, it is worthwhile making a neat and cosmetically appealing job of the surgical closure. Though I was comfortable staring at the slice in my flesh, I was bothered by the sneering lips of my incision, which were crooked, weepy, and bruised, the stitches irregularly spaced. Second, never underestimate how much a pet wants to scratch an incision and, to a greater extent, the area of skin that was shaved. For all the stabbing pain every time I sat up, the unrelenting itchy prickle of my fresh Brazilian was almost more torturous.

    Of course my positive veterinary experience had not been a fluke. Arthur Stone was as affable and accommodating as always, finagling a way to help me hang out with the veterinarians, especially Ryan James. Never one to miss a teaching opportunity, Ryan would pull me away from the walls when I was trying too hard to be politely inconspicuous. He would insist I help hold a dog, restrain a cat, palpate a mass, take a listen with a stethoscope. He forced me to interact. He allowed me every opportunity to hear what he heard, to feel what he felt, relentless until I got it, until he could see it in my eyes, watching me catch the exact same bug that grabbed him when he was my age.
    In the meantime, there was a strange turn of events taking place back at the homestead. In the immediate aftermath of Patch’s death, the notion of getting another dog had been unthinkable, the subject taboo for my grieving father. For nearly a year, you could sit on our sofa and not have a mohair like coating on your clothing when you stood up. You could nonchalantly stroll around our backyard indifferent to your footfalls and friends even began to call for me by appearing at the front door rather than using the telephone. But, over time, I began to eavesdrop on conversations that told me Dad was coming back, recapturing his desire for a dog, my mother forced to reassert her original proclamation—“No more dogs!” Having to concede the word
more
meant acknowledging her past failure to prevent such a transgression, so, to provide extra menace this time around, she often tossed in a sentence or two that included the word
divorce
. Then the unthinkable happened.
    “Mum’s beginning to weaken,” said Dad in a whisper over the cup of tea he was handing over as a bribe to get me up and out of bed for school. “Don’t say a word, but I think we have a shot at getting a dog.”
    The combination of shock and disbelief made his request easy tocarry out. I was careful not to leak my information to Fiona, fearful the womenfolk had laid a trap for us dog lovers, poised to expose and crush our pent-up desire for the return of canine company. I was careful not to weaken and let my mother catch me wearing a knowing smile, and any covert communication between my father and I during this period of delicate diplomacy was done far away from prying eyes and sensitive ears. We dared not risk a raised brow, a wink, or a nod. Mum needed to save face and cave on her terms.
    The announcement, when it came, was delivered by both parents and shrouded in secrecy. Yes, we were getting a dog. No, it wouldn’t be another German shepherd (no one needed to clarify this decision—for all of us, there would only ever be one German shepherd in our lives). Yes, it would be another male dog, and no, we would just have to wait and see.
    I tried to coax a hint out of Dad but to no avail. All I knew was my father appeared to be supremely happy but was sworn to silence, and a significant clincher in the deal involved his submitting to my mum’s choice of breed.
    I hardly had a chance to point out that Mum, by her own admission, knew little