Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer(53)

She pulled a thermometer from a glass bottle on the counter, squeezed some lube onto it, and positioned herself behind Argus. Did it thrill Jacob? Did it depress him? It depressed him. But why? Because of Argus’s stoicism whenever this happened? How it reminded him of his own unwillingness, or inability, to show discomfort? No, it had to do with the vet—her youthful beauty (she seemed to be reverse-aging as the visit progressed), but more, her tender care. She inspired fantasizing in Jacob, but not about a sexual encounter. Not even about her guiding in a suppository. He imagined her pressing a stethoscope to his chest; her fingers gently exploring the glands of his neck; how she would extend and bend his arms and legs, listening for the difference between discomfort and pain with the closeness and quietness and care of someone trying to crack a safe.

Max got down on a knee, placed his face in front of Argus’s, and said, “That’s my boy. Look at me. There you go, boy.”

“OK,” she said, removing the thermometer. “A little high, but within the healthy range.”

She then ran her hands over Argus’s body, examining the insides of his ears, lifting his lip to look at the teeth and gums, pressing Argus’s belly, rotating his thigh until he whined.

“Sensitive on that leg.”

“He had both of his hips replaced,” Max said.

“Total hip replacements?”

Jacob shrugged.

“The left was a femoral head osteotomy,” Max said.

“That’s an interesting choice.”

“Yeah,” Max went on, “he was on the border in terms of weight, and the vet thought we could spare him the THR. But it was a mistake.”

“Sounds like you were paying pretty close attention.”

“He’s my dog,” Max said.

“OK,” she said, “he’s obviously got some tenderness. Probably a bit of arthritis.”

“He’s been pooping in the house for about a year,” Max said.

“Not a year,” Jacob corrected.

“Don’t you remember Sam’s slumber party?”

“Right, but that was unusual. It didn’t become a consistent problem until several months after that.”

“And is he also urinating in the house?”

“Mostly just defecating,” Jacob said, “some peeing more recently.”

“Does he still squat to poop? Often it’s really an arthritic problem, rather than an intestinal or rectal one—the dog can no longer assume the position, and so poops while walking.”

“He often poops while walking,” Jacob said.

“But sometimes he’ll poop in his bed,” Max said.

“As if he doesn’t realize he’s pooping,” the vet suggested. “Or simply has no control.”

“Right,” Max said. “I don’t know if dogs get embarrassed, or sad, but.”

Jacob received a text from Julia: made it to the hotel.

“We’ll never know,” the vet said, “but it definitely doesn’t sound pleasant.”

That’s it? Jacob thought. Made it to the hotel? As if to a tolerated colleague, or the most minimal communication required to satisfy a legal obligation. And then he thought, Why does she always give me so little? And that thought surprised him, not just the flash flood of anger it rode in on, but how comfortable it felt—and that word, always—despite his never before having consciously thought it. Why does she always give me so little? So little of the benefit of the doubt. So few compliments. Such rare appreciation. When was the last time she didn’t stifle a laugh at one of his jokes? When did she last ask to read what he was working on? When did she last initiate sex? So little to live off. He’d behaved badly, but only after a decade of wounds from arrows too blunt to get the job done.

He often thought of that piece by Andy Goldsworthy, for which he lay flat on the ground as a storm came in, and remained there until it passed. When he stood up, his dry silhouette remained. Like the chalk outline of a victim. Like the unpunctured circle where the dartboard used to be.

“He still enjoys himself at the park,” Jacob said to the vet.

“What’s that?”

“I was just saying that he still enjoys himself at the park.”

And with that seeming non sequitur, the conversation rotated 180 degrees, so that the other side faced front.

“Sometimes he does,” Max said. “But mostly he just lies there. And he has such a hard time with the stairs at home.”

“He ran the other day.”

“And then limped for like the next three days.”

“Look,” Jacob said, “obviously his quality of life is diminishing. Obviously he’s not the dog he used to be. But he has a life worth living.”

“Says who?”

“Dogs don’t want to die.”

“Great-Grandpa does.”

“Whoa, wait. What did you just say?”

“Great-Grandpa wants to die,” Max said matter-of-factly.

“Great-Grandpa isn’t a dog.” The full strangeness of that comment started to creep up the walls of the room. Jacob tried to cut it back with the obvious amendment: “And he doesn’t want to die.”

“Says who?”

“Would you two like a little time?” the vet asked, crossing her arms and taking a long backward stride toward the door.