Page 47 of You Are Not Me

I pushed the cracked door open wider. “Dad? It’s Harry. I think he’s sick. He’s acting weird, and his skin is yellow.”

“Huh?” Mom said.

“Harry,” Dad answered, already climbing out of bed. “Sick.”

“Oh,” Mom half-moaned, rolling over and burying her head under a pillow. “Okay.”

“Go back to sleep,” Dad told her.

In the kitchen, he took one look at Harry and asked me to get the crate ready. “I need to change clothes. We’ll take him to the twenty-four-hour emergency vet. He looks like he’s in bad shape.”

“But he was fine earlier,” I said. “He was totally normal when I let him out after dinner.”

“He’s old, Petey. Sometimes it happens quickly. But it could just be a virus, or maybe he ate something bad out in the yard.” Dad didn’t sound convinced.

I prepared his crate, and Harry started shaking like crazy. He hated going to the vet. I couldn’t blame him since Dr. Bell was constantly shoving things up Harry’s ass and then stabbing him with needles.

Dad helped me get Harry and his crate in the car before going back in to leave a note for Mom. “She’s dead to the world. Took some valerian root with her wine.”

“Mixing those could kill her,” I whispered, hearing the echo of my prior conversation with Adam.

Dad mocked her lightly, using a higher-pitched voice, “‘It’s all natural, Abe.’ That’s what she says to me. It’s better than the Valium, I guess.”

During the drive, Harry cried from the back seat, long, terrified whimpers. I strained against my seat belt to turn so I could stick my fingers in the crate for him to lick. “It’s okay, Harry. It’s okay, boy.”

He shook so hard the crate rattled.

The lobby of the emergency vet was empty, and we were escorted back immediately. The tech helped us get Harry’s crate on the table. Harry was quiet now, and that scared me more than his earlier cries. I bent to look at him, but his eyes were shut and he was panting, his tongue sticking out of his mouth.

“Dad,” I said, panic tightening my throat. “He looks worse.”

Dad put his hand on my neck. “It’s okay, Petey. Let’s get him out so the doctor can see him.”

I opened the crate, and Harry didn’t even move. I dragged him out and he whimpered, slitting his eyes open to look at me. My whole body shook as I hugged him.

A middle-aged man came in wearing a name tag readingDr. Griffiths. His eyes were heavy with sleepiness, but he greeted us kindly before turning to Harry. “Well, what’s the problem, old boy? Let’s take a look at you, huh?”

He shifted Harry around, stuck a thermometer up his butt, poked him, pushed on his stomach, listened to his heart, and all the time Dr. Griffiths made noises that made my stomach twist and my eyes burn.

“We could run some tests, but I’m thinking total renal and liver failure. Sudden onset—probably natural due to his age, though possibly brought about by exposure to some kind of toxin or poison.”

“Poison?” I asked. “Why would someone poison him?”

“Doubtful, son. Harry isn’t the kind of dog people set out to kill.” Dr. Griffiths scratched Harry’s jaw. “He’s too old to be a nuisance. His chart here says he’s sixteen. It was bound to be something soon. No animal can go on indefinitely.”

Sobs blocked my throat, and I blinked rapidly.

Dad asked, “Is there any treatment you suggest? Or is it—should we—I mean—” he broke off and bit his lip, touching Harry’s head.

“We can keep him hydrated and run some tests, but let me tell you right now, Mr. Mandel, it doesn’t look good. Any treatment is going to be a stopgap measure. See his skin? That’s an indication he’s pretty far gone already. To be completely candid, I’m not sure anything we do to keep him alive isn’t just going to be torture for him at this point.”

My eyes burned, and I closed them for a second, trying to get control. When I opened them, Harry was staring right at me. Dad put his hand on my shoulder, but didn’t say anything. Hot tears slid down my cheeks, and I had to cover my face and turn my back on the doctor.

“What do we need to do to make it easier for him?” Dad asked.

An hour later, we drove home with an empty crate and Harry in a box. I’d cried throughout the whole ordeal, even though I’d tried hard to keep from breaking down. Dad had cried too.

Dr. Griffiths had given us a few minutes alone with Harry first. I’d told him that I loved him, that he’d been a good dog, and that I was sorry I hadn’t paid more attention to him lately. He’d licked my face, and that’d made me cry even harder.

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