The young man in reception is startled when he bursts in, or was already startled.
Did someone bring in a dog that’s been run over?
The man doesn’t say anything and just looks at him. It is a common reaction in these parts. People sometimes look surprised that they have been spoken to, as if addressing someone in words were the most peculiar thing.
My dog was run over, and someone told me she was here.
The man jolts out of his stupor and says yes, the dog is here. He says he’s going to talk to the vet and tells him to wait there. He returns and says that she’s in the consulting room and will be out to see him in a minute.
Can I go in to talk to her?
No. She’ll be right out.
The man still looks nervous, as if he were being tested.
Is the man who brought her in still here?
He’s gone. He waited awhile, then left.
Was it someone from here? Was he a local?
The man shrugs. His ears have no outside folds, as if someone had cut off their edges when he was a child in an act of insane cruelty. The veterinary clinic’s reception area is actually a fully stocked pet shop. Tall piles of bags of dry dog and cat food take up most of the small space, and the strong smell unearths childhood memories, visits to stables and agricultural fairs with his father. Once when he was barely a teenager and the whole family still lived in the house in Ipanema, he ate dog food just to see what it was like. The floury taste and gritty texture come back to him. He used to feel sorry for the dogs that had to eat it. He sees a poster on the wall with illustrations of every dog breed in the world and fading photos of what appear to be members of several generations of beagles from the same family. A poster about vaccination. On the glass door is a large sticker with a drawing of a cow munching on grass that says ANIMALS ARE FRIENDS, NOT FOOD. Plastic doghouses, padded pet beds, collars, and multicolored shampoos. He hears a small animal yelping at the back of the clinic.
A blond woman in a white coat appears in reception.
Are you the owner of the dog?
There is a smear of blood near the waist of the coat.
Yes.
You know she was hit by a car, don’t you?
Yes. Where is she?
In the consulting room. I’ve just stabilized her. Please, let’s go into my office because I need to explain a few things to you.
They sit facing each other at her desk. On top of it is a portrait of her next to her husband, a stout, bald man. He reminds him of his student Jander, who owns a pet shop.
Are you Jander’s wife, by any chance?
Yes. Do you know him?
He’s my student at the swimming pool.
Oh, so you’re his instructor?
He says yes with a little smile and takes a deep breath. He rests his forehead in his hand with his elbow propped on the edge of the desk.
The vet explains that Beta has a fractured humerus and a lumbar spine injury, probably with a complete fracture of vertebra L6 or L7, which means that she will probably be paralyzed. The vet’s tone of voice is funereal. She may also have a fractured pelvis. In addition to her abrasions, which are ugly. In a case like this, she says, we need to offer the owner the option of euthanasia.
I don’t want to put her down. Try to save her.
Of course you don’t. But think about it a little.
Can’t you operate?
I can. But even if she survives, it is almost certain that she’ll never walk again. And no matter how much you love your pet, you should give some thought to what things will be like afterward. She may suffer a lot, she won’t be easy to care for, she’ll need a trolley in order to walk.
So there’s a chance she might walk again?
It’s almost impossible. I’m sorry.
Can I see her?
It’s better if you don’t. In general we don’t allow it. You think you want to see her, but you don’t. Believe me.
I don’t have a problem with these things.
Even if you’re a doctor or a vet, it doesn’t matter. It’s not a question of being used to seeing blood. You don’t want to. It’s better if you talk to me. Trust me, I’ve seen this before.
Sweat drips from his chin. He is still breathing heavily. He remembers that he is in a T-shirt and Speedos, barefoot.
Excuse the state I’m in. I ran here from the gym.
Don’t worry. Look, forgive me for insisting. I’m really sorry, and I know that you love your dog a lot, but I need to emphasize that it would be best—
Your name’s Greice, isn’t it?
Yes.
Greice, I understand. But I need to see her before I decide. I won’t leave without seeing her.
She stares at him for a moment.
Come with me, then.
There isn’t much in the operating room: a wall cabinet, a support trolley, plastic tubes, cotton wool, not a surgical instrument in sight. In the center, on an aluminum table under an operating light with four bulbs, is his father’s dog.
I’ve cleaned and sedated her. But like I told you, she’s badly hurt. You’ll get a shock.
He walks over and looks at the dog.
Then he approaches the vet, who stayed in the doorway, and talks to her in a low voice close to her face.
Do everything you can, Greice. It doesn’t matter how long it takes. I don’t care how much it costs. I’ll pay more than normal if necessary. I’ll pay whatever you think is fair. If you need to take her somewhere else, let’s do it. Do whatever you can for her to survive and to get as well as possible.
You understand that she’s going to be paralyzed? That there’s no guarantee that she’s going to walk?
Yes.
The surgery costs around two thousand reais. But it might end up costing more.
That’s fine. The price doesn’t matter.
Leave your contact information with William in reception. Cell phone and everything. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got some news. And she’ll need to stay in the clinic for at least thirty days. That’ll cost you too.
Okay. Do everything you can.
I promise you I will.
Thanks.
He gives William his contact details and walks back into Garopaba.
• • •
The news has spread through the gym. Mila hugs him and kisses his neck. He feels the satiny skin of the Chilean descended from Mapuche Indians on his. She strokes his hair with her hand and offers him a slice of wholemeal chocolate cake. She says he is pale and looks weak. Débora is signing up some new clients but straightens up in her chair and asks how the dog is with pity written all over her face. She tells him to go home as it’s almost time anyway, and Saucepan is watching his students in the swimming pool. He thinks about calling his mother as he gets changed in the dressing room but decides not to. To her, Beta is just a dog, if not to say a kind of enemy, and he realizes how absurd it is to be jealous of a dog and a dead man, even if not entirely without cause. When he told his mother that he had decided to look after Beta after his father’s suicide, she shook her head, unable to understand. If it were up to her, she would have pressured someone in the neighborhood to take her in. But her son keeping the dog? It was a kind of offense.